A Letter To You.

No matter who we are, where we are, or even what time space we exist in, each and everyone of us, deep down, are the same.

We all feel that unbearable loneliness at night, lying in the bed, suspended in the quiet dark universe of our minds, a loneliness that no other human being can ease.

We all wonder, now and then, in flashes, of what point there is to it all: all this scurrying, all this business of the sun setting and the world rising and things happening and moving and growing and thinking and going, going, going.

We all want to feel safe, and when security lies out of our reach, as it will forever, for security is an illusion, we press our faces into walls and pillows and arms and wish for the abyss to swallow us.

The darkness is always there. The darkness was there before we were born and will take us after we die. Maybe the darkness is safe. We block out the world to disappear into the little pocket of darkness, knowing that sooner or later we have to lift our head and face our lives anew. It is like lifting your eyes to a blinding light. We scream. It is painful. But we must always look up.

Even when we are happy, the happiness is tinged with a bittersweet sorrow, as nothing is forever, not people, not books, not words, not life, not our children, not love, not money. The only thing that is forever is transience, and change, and on. Always on. Going, always going. Going where? Going what for? What is beyond this journey, beyond this path we all travel?

We all want to be loved. We want to be surrounded by family who we can press close and feel less scared of the cold twinkle of the stars in the sky, that cold twinkle that tells us our flesh and bones will not last.

And let’s face it, deep down, we all want true love. We want to be desired. We want an all-consuming passion to drown out the existential despair, we want to clutch at a sense of meaning through the fiery feelings that gush through our bodies with another. We want it, so bad it is like a physical ache. If we loved, passionately loved, maybe we could forget the abyss that stares at us from the corner of our eyes.

We try to cling to anything that will help us forget what lies at the end of the road, forget the stars and the shortness of it all, forget the meaningless words and meaningless laughter and meaningless smiles.

We want to forget ourselves. We want to forget that we inhabit this body, as a human creature, too smart for its own good, yet not smart enough not to feel miserable. Our own intelligence and awareness of existence has brought us wonders, leaps in technology and feats beyond wildest imaginings, but it has also made us sad. Very sad.

We all have things we use to drug the pain of life. I use books. I use fantasies. I use hope, small though it may be. Some use drugs, sex, pain, recklessness. None are better than the others. They are just ways to cope. Even religion is a way to cope, an aspirin against the awful, gaping fact of our loneliness in the universe. We are an accident. We evolved, our brains grew tremendous, and now we are here. And we hate it. We hate that.

Sometimes it’s beautiful, and wondrous. Mostly it’s painful. And the pain isn’t even severe, most of the time. There are torrents of misery, but there are also the everyday irritants, a toothache, noisy traffic, plans that don’t work out, that corrode away at our soul.

No matter how many earthly pleasures we receive, when it’s dark, when all is quiet, we secretly resent our awareness, our thoughts, our knowledge. We resent being given this life, but given no answers.

Where does that leave us?

I don’t know.

We are all each other, only we can experience life one at a time. We are all the same. This is important, somehow. This is the only hope that we have. To love and help each other. To soothe each other, as we all experience the same pain as part of the human condition. We reach out to each other, through touch, through speech, through words, and glean comfort from that. That’s all we can do. That’s all I can do.

I love you. I love you because you exist. I know you feel shit sometimes. We all do. I know that it all hurts, so much sometimes, and I know that even when you’re not hurting the pain echoes quietly in the back of your mind. I know that life is unfair, and you hate that. I know that the night is lonely. I know that the world is frightening, with its big bad people behind big bad corporations, and its uncaring people, and greed and selfishness and prejudice and bigotry, and everything could change in a split second, your world could fall apart. I know the stars scare you because even though they’re beautiful they only remind of how short a time you really have on this earth.

I know. I know. We’re all scared, lonely, hurt, bored, depressed, sad, wistful, hopeful, yearning, yearning hard enough to break our own hearts. I know. I know. I know. Here. I am a human being, and I know, and I hope you know that. I can’t be there for you. We all work through our pain and suffering alone, as with everything else. I can’t fight your battles for you. I can’t hold your hand. I can’t hug you when you feel sad, even if I wanted to. All I have are my words. Words are important. They help. Words are a gift. Without them, many on this earth would have perished from despair.

I just want you to know that I know. That’s all. Sometimes, that’s all you need.

But mostly it’s not.