an explanation
A person is so much more than the petty things in life. At the core of every person there's a force, a being, something that is so much them it's something they could never divorce themselves from. It goes further than their external attributes - their fragility, their strength, their power or sense of humour. There's something raw about that spirit in every person. It's so difficult to know and it's the essence of that life itself.
In mine there is a keening sense of failure hanging over my shoulder. There is desolation, and a deep need to forget. It can drive people to drown themselves in dancing or liquor or drugs. As for me, I drown myself in stories and music and art. Stories of even more beautiful desolation, of living in the cold, of simple kindness. The works that acknowledge how terrible life can be are the ones I admire the most. Like the Book Thief. And having just finished the Mockingjay Chronicles by Suzanne Collins, I think all the more of how life can be so hard to just pick up and finish, without finishing myself. Yet the little things can make it... bearable.
Little things like acknowledging that everyone has their own life, the soul looking out behind the eyes is a real person, that as much as you hate what they do we're all in the same situation struggling for something in our soul. Little things like trying to show you care. So when someone snubs you, you remember that they have their troubles. When someone offends you, you see their life and try not to judge them. With your dearest friends and mere acquaintances, you try to forgive the things they have and haven't done, and try to love them still, or at the very least at that moment, not respond the way your anger and hurt directs you.
And you treasure the things that they too have tried to do to show they love you, no matter if they're imperfectly executed. After all, we were all created to love and still, to be imperfect. I think the moment you decide to look past yourself to the other person's true struggle is amazing.
I hunger for so much. And I fear so much that I may be sabotaging myself. So much that you may ask, What's with all the encouragement to live? I'm living fine. But they're for myself the most, so I don't forget.
In mine there is a keening sense of failure hanging over my shoulder. There is desolation, and a deep need to forget. It can drive people to drown themselves in dancing or liquor or drugs. As for me, I drown myself in stories and music and art. Stories of even more beautiful desolation, of living in the cold, of simple kindness. The works that acknowledge how terrible life can be are the ones I admire the most. Like the Book Thief. And having just finished the Mockingjay Chronicles by Suzanne Collins, I think all the more of how life can be so hard to just pick up and finish, without finishing myself. Yet the little things can make it... bearable.
Little things like acknowledging that everyone has their own life, the soul looking out behind the eyes is a real person, that as much as you hate what they do we're all in the same situation struggling for something in our soul. Little things like trying to show you care. So when someone snubs you, you remember that they have their troubles. When someone offends you, you see their life and try not to judge them. With your dearest friends and mere acquaintances, you try to forgive the things they have and haven't done, and try to love them still, or at the very least at that moment, not respond the way your anger and hurt directs you.
And you treasure the things that they too have tried to do to show they love you, no matter if they're imperfectly executed. After all, we were all created to love and still, to be imperfect. I think the moment you decide to look past yourself to the other person's true struggle is amazing.
I hunger for so much. And I fear so much that I may be sabotaging myself. So much that you may ask, What's with all the encouragement to live? I'm living fine. But they're for myself the most, so I don't forget.
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