Maybe we were never meant to be happy.
That all joy, humor, and hope are purposely fleeting.
Existence is infused with cosmic irony.
The entirety of the universe, a jester.
It is an experiment gone wrong; A joke done right.
A sweet, full tune turns bitter.
A pleasant moment now sour.
The months roll by—the age increases.
One thread runs through, despair unaccounted.
I find a strife within me,
Two characters to play, both formidable.
On one side, I am hope, a ray of sunshine.
On the other, I am despair, the shadow of death.
I feel safe on those sad days, when I convulse with the existential spirit. I have nothing to hold to, no energy to expend, and no toiling. It is as if, on those days, I laugh with the universe and submit to its joke. I sit back and watch, knowing that all living is futile. Many thoughts and much thinking—all of these lead to one road: that it is all pointless. I am detached from the false reality we all carry, the one that seeks meaning where there is none. The same that hears God when he is, in fact, silent…calculating…aloof. Perhaps the deists are correct in their assessment…perhaps God has died, and the rotting corpse of his presence leaves an intangible scent in the air. We follow this scent and try to reach him, but his presence is no more. His corpse exudes a force—say, entropy—that consumes everything in this universe. Or perhaps not. I know nothing beyond what I see.
However, to pick up where we left off, there is the reality that creates purpose even when there is none. Like morphine, our thoughts of these keep us afloat--hindering us from ending it all.
We seem afraid to fall—yes, to truly fall. The scales fall from our eyes, unadulterated truth before us. The realization that suffering is all we know. I give credit to the atheists here, for how can God exist amidst all of this suffering? All of this despair that characterizes human living. Adam and Eve’s sin? Is it fair that we deal with their consequences? That we are chosen—not we who choose—to be born, all without our consent. Told to play a game, given 80 years…while some get only 4 seconds. Given all of our limbs, while others have none. Born into affluence, while others are destitute.
I do not believe God exists; I know he does—and it’s this knowing that makes it harder to believe he exists. When one looks at reality and this God-forsaken world we live on, I simply look up and ask him, “Why?” Why is the punishment so brutal? Why create this universe in the first place? Why couldn’t you destroy Satan at the get-go? Why not eliminate Adam and Eve when they sinned and start over? All these and more constantly occupy my thoughts. Alas, who am I to question the God that transcends all of reality…
I am nothing before him; that I know. However, unlike Job, I cannot be satisfied with the answer given. The one that follows this: that God is above everything, that his ways are higher than our ways, and therefore we know not what he does. This, to me, seems to be a human response—a lack of resolve to go further, a lack of courage to seek deeper, a lack of strength to face him head-on, in a respectful way, and demand the hard, cold truth. Are we merely playthings to him? Something to be toyed with—then into a casket we go. Still, I know God is good. I suppose I must submit to negative theology, only seeking to describe God by what he is not. For, no matter how much I try to understand him, I seem to hit a wall. This I have made peace with, slightly, for I wonder if I am now a coward…running away from facing him head-on…if I lack the strength, running away from grappling with him like Jacob did.
There seems to be a perpetual drowning in life; we draw breath but only for a moment. When we do so, we seem to be fine, for we are not submerged. However, back down we go…our life force draining. We are not fine when times are good; we are merely given a break to continue. We simply have enough strength to kick up. With one big gulp, we rest—then, toiling, we go. We seem to be pawns in a match, moved without our will, yearning to be free. Then consciousness presents itself, wishing to have control—so we construct our reality, each of us individually. Thence cometh human pride and the ego, that we are above our circumstances. One then finds resilience and strength—nothing but the ability to withstand torture. The match begins, ends…again and again, this time with different variations.
One character rises while another falls. One is born as another dies. Voltaire said, "Le génie n'a qu'un siècle, après quoi, il faut qu'il dégénère." We have but a century…some have half of that, another a quarter…and some were never given a chance. We seek maxims, sayings that give a clear road, that satiate our worry, till one realizes life has none. Our well-meaning sayings are not universal, but as it is custom that they work, we command them as natural truths. We prescribe our ought—believe fervently in them, while nature lets out a roar—the divine comedy, for it is all futile. A broken soul cries in the wilderness, hands reaching out to grasp safety. Silence. Simply the sound of the wind, mimicking the presence of the divine. Till we get up and realize, we were always seemingly alone. The cycle simply repeats. Staeper. Repeats. Staeper.
Here I am, my name is Hope.
My fumes are joy.
My life transforms.
Stick to me and live to see.
Now I turn to the ray of sunshine, the part of me that sees beyond this reality. Some days it possesses me—and I let go of all my despair. Realizing that indeed this reality is brutal, but since GOD exists, there must be some life after this, a place of respite. There was a time in my life when I did not care if I ended up in heaven or hell, but rather in a place where I simply do not exist. In retrospect, this seems foolish, for who would choose nothingness over an eternal heaven? One where the love of God permeates? It was hope that took me out—that God sees me, and he sees others. I do not believe in a cruel God—one who sees the suffering of humanity and simply laughs. People often say God has a sense of humor…but I say God is perpetually saddened and has no time to laugh. His very face is contorted by suffering—he himself is not exempt from what we go through. I suppose one day he shall carry us home, too.
I have said it once, but I praise God in all his wisdom, power, and glory that we are not immortal. That we all have an expiration date—for this torture will soon be over. I suppose my hope lies in this: that Christ has saved us…all of us, and we are merely waiting for the boatman. Each of us is on our way to meet him individually. Perhaps the reason suffering continues, and we do not all go at once, is that each of us is to meet him individually—to ask him questions and be answered, away from the guise of the Church…from those who stifle and persecute those who ask. That could perhaps itself be a delusional thought, but delusion can be a solution!
I come out to play, even if life is depressing. I still exist, even though I feel afraid of living. In this world of pain, I only exist when I hold the hands of hope. There is death, paradoxes, confusion, suffering, and more. However, there remains life. Where there is life, there is hope. I can hear the thoughts of many—even you, my dear reader, “Yes, I have life…but some things are worse than death…and living is one of them. Living with a mind that always questions—that sees beyond the niceties; peering, grappling with the intangible.” I know your mind seeks to comprehend certain concepts. Sadly, I do not offer answers—only a realization. That life is a brutal game, but we will not endure it forever. That despite it all, we can join hands together and live; to experience love and community. To find our group and be fulfilled; to march on, for we have a city that awaits us. I suppose our purpose, and perhaps why I myself was born on this earth, is to free as many as I can from the shackles of despair—that is what we are all to do. I suppose it is done through love, spreading it evermore…radically transforming it. This is a radically unfair world, and it needs a radical force to oppose it.
My piece on hope is short, for I cannot describe it in depth…I simply feel it. Despair and existential angst I am acquainted with—it’s as if they are the natural state of human nature. I will not bend the knee, nor surrender. I realize the strength to live comes from having an attitude and disposition that mixes hope and despair. That I boldly look at reality and weep, while in my heart I laugh.
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