And We Go On Despite

Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the human body is its ability to keep going. The muscles heal themselves, and broken bones fuse back together. Bleeding cuts return to life as callouses, and torn flesh eventually embraces itself.

The mind, then, is perhaps an altogether different entity of its own. Broken and bruised by time, it lies scattered on the floor like glass shards, patiently waiting for one’s own self to step on them. Glass shards — they look like stars when sunlight pierces through them. Perhaps not every star requires darkness to glisten from afar; perhaps all some need is the warmth of another.

Perhaps not every flower is meant to be born with thorns, nor arise from the mud to be beautiful. Not every breath needs to be born of suffering to be worthwhile, and not every ink put on paper needs to be crimson.

Does art exist due to darkness, or despite it?

All that’s gold is made to be lost, and just like the moon, all that’s silver is made to be treasured. We see our flaws magnified in every reflection of ours, but just as the reflection of the sea above carries not even a fragment of its reality, we, too, with our own seas within, cannot rely on a mere surface to gauge the depth it was never meant to hold.

Grief replaces love, and anger finds its way out through tears. Wounds are etched on our flesh, draining out all the blood from our bodies. And we heal despite; we go on despite.

And when darkness finds its way back to us, perhaps all we can do is light a candle. For dying by a flame is far more revered than being consumed by the dark.

Perhaps not every person is destined for greatness; perhaps they are meant for something serene. Perhaps some are meant to catch the ones flying lest they fall, or perhaps some don’t dream of flying at all. With every tide lashing hard against the shore, and every breath hammering hard against your chest, perhaps some aren’t meant for this world at all.

I don’t yearn for fame, and nor do I wish to be one of the ‘greats’. Perhaps the most fulfilling day of my life was when I realised there was no meaning in anything at all.

We stride, we stumble, we scrape our knees on the hard concrete, but we keep moving despite it. A bruise is a bruise, and a cut is a cut. What breathes is what bleeds, and what strides is what gets thrown in the dirt. Our every hurt is just so full of life that it doesn’t need any ‘meaning’ to survive — to breathe and to be alive. We can cradle it in our arms and put it to sleep for a while, but at the end of the day, it’s all our own to deal with. It’ll cry and whine at midnight, and we must be able to soothe it at all times.

Perhaps the greatest blessing for humanity was its mortality. Just like time withers every flower it sees, and just like the sea pulls back each of its beings, we too, with all our love and hurt in our arms, succumb to this great miracle.

Perhaps not everyone is meant for greatness, and perhaps that is the greatest thing of all.