It takes a lot of courage to exist.
I mean it.
It takes a lot of strength and courage to get out of bed in the morning and work and try and strive towards what you believe in and what makes your heart sing, even when the results are unfavorable and you don’t believe in yourself and you wonder what is the point, after all, if everything is going to end and life is inherently meaningless.
Sometimes, I read the words I have written, and I groan. This groan is the universal sound of agony that echoes, every day, like a sadistic, devilish symphony, in the hearts of every creature on earth. It is a pain beyond words, and beyond thinking or understanding. It is just a wide, wide feeling, that swells and fills the entire universe with red screaming. You and I and everyone should get a pat on the back for enduring this agony because we work and try. The act of trying itself is an act of bravery and strength, so much strength. We’re warriors. We’re heroes and heroines. It would be so much easier to not try. To not exist.
Existing is really painful. It’s more painful than childbirth. It’s more painful than anything. It’s painful because it’s confusing and weird, and we don’t know anything beyond the confines of our own little worlds. There is so much, so much of “beyond”, that it blows raspberries of emptiness down our throats in mockery. We drink bitter fluids day after day with smiles on our faces. We go to sleep hoping that sleep will make us forget, and feel happy for a little while. We yearn for childhood so hard we wish we could cram our bodies into a smaller space and be little again, so safe, so sure.
So much of what we yearn for, deep in our hearts, when it’s quiet at night, will remain just that: a yearning. A reaching of futile fingers towards a fairy dream that dissolves the moment we open our eyes. Sometimes it feels like the greatest cruelty in the world is that we must open our eyes in the morning, and see. I don’t want to see. I wish I could just close my eyes forever. But I don’t. You don’t. Because we’re brave. Reality is disgusting. It really is. Why else do we have so many avenues of escapism? Reality is utterly, utterly grotesque. And really, really sad. The kind of sadness that is grey and runny, the rotten yolk of a stinking, buried egg. Even happiness is only ever a temporary burst of light. Anything that delights only exists for a short while – soon enough, we settle back down to the monotony of NOW, once again embraced by the prickly arms of a persistent dissatisfaction.
They say we should create our own heaven on earth, but I’m sorry to break the news: hell staked its flag here first. For there is nothing more terrible than the pits of fire and brimstone in our hearts, each raging behind walls of flesh and bone until our deaths.
To exist is to suffer.
You and I suffer. Ever so quietly.
You probably suffered today, and alone, as I did. You probably wanted to spit and scream, but you didn’t. You probably didn’t want to exist anymore, but you kept on existing. You probably hated yourself, shrunk your own worth down to the tiniest amoeba, raged at the skies, crushed your face into a pillow, wondered a big fat WHY at an abyss that never answers and ran round and round in circles in your own mind until you were dizzy and wanted to throw up.
That’s fucking brave.