No matter how strong I make of myself, and how much I grasp my thoughts and try to conquer my particular life, life always works the way it has always been working and the way it has been with everyone. No difference induced by the fallacy of uniqueness. All my efforts may just change a shade or put a cloak of acceptance over it, but it always works the way it always has been and the way it wants to.
One ignorant but adamant bitch, life.
Falling in despair, appearance of a gleam of hope, rising to it and then living a few cheerful days before the cycle repeats. Life works just like that, no exceptions with anyone. Certainly the period of this cycle varies, but everyone kneels or is made to kneel and taste both dust and pain. Time and again, over and over. That’s the reality of this comedy.
Then there are always ways out of everything, so is one out of this. That escape wouldn’t be really called a escape because there is nothing beyond it. The escape is: lifelessness. Feeling less of everything. Feeling only over the skin, far away from the vulnerabilities of heart. Both joy and pain. Monotonous smiles and tears.
You might as well just continue living as you were. There isn’t any escape out of it. We don’t really require one either.
Some things are just so real that you refuse to write them and let it be.
Words are great, and perhaps the greatest thing our kind has ever brought in existence, but reality is mightier. Words do not have the power to contain reality in its exact trueness. Because reality is too enormous to be possesed, too real.
When we set out to write about something, be it in forms of poetry or other creative writings, we use metaphors to state how something feels like, and metaphors lie far away from the real nature of that reality which we set to describe.
The more you make use of metaphors, the closer you move to poetry and the farther you move from reality.
No doubt we come up with exquisitely beautiful definitions in forms of poetry about the pain in our heart and the longing for our lover and everything that amuses us in nature but that simply isn’t reality. I don’t say that it needs to be, I just say that it isn’t.
What maybe drawn out of what I’m trying to say here is that: I am not devaluing poetry and words, I am rather stating the mightiness of reality that we often set out to describe in words.
The falling of a leaf in desolation under unguided force and waywardness is different from what we feel when our heart suddenly drops into some kind of congested abyss, but I surely can use the former as a metaphor for the latter – and, I must say, that’d be amazing. But that exactly which we had wished to describe will remain unwritten.
It is and it will be,
Those whom you find talking of hope and of assurance that things will get better and all is good can be assumed to be having a good time, a moment that relishes their everyway desires and longings. And you will see them speaking of the light, of the good things, and they wish good upon you and solace those who maybe hurt and in despair, but another thing only a few might notice is that they do not put much effort into telling you all these. At one point, if you look at them in a bitter but naked real way, you’ll conclude they do not care. They are far interested in enjoying their good time while pretending to be noble merely to not appear selfish to his own self. The goodness that reflects is also a mere default automatic programmed behaviour that come into action at similar times.
Or simply put and a little in their favour, you may say that they may be of a good soul with caring intentions but they are just not wise enough.
Because it does not take callings from the light to take out someone out of misery, it requires pushes from within the darkness to pull them out.