There are certain crossroads in life, where one stops and looks around. And sometimes, one dares to look back. The man in the mirror has changed... like thawing snow in the aftermath of winter, white patches of hair decorate this new landscape. The body ages, the soul grows older... energy fades. The old ones did not say without merit: "With one foot in the grave". Death doesn't seem as far away as it used to. One can feel the decay, the smell of dirt becomes more familiar... everything feels... final.
But with age, there are certain things that improve as well. The relationship with eternal sleep improves, fear makes way to numbness.
Come and take me, o death, free me from this mortal coil.
I catch myself whispering in the depths of despair and hopelessness.
Take from me this burden of failure, of disappointment; return me to the Void, forever forgotten; a calm deep free of thought, care... existence.
Decent into nihilism becomes easier: "Let the world burn, what do I care" echoes inside my skull. "Give up, give up, give up!" cries the little voice usually withdrawn in the caves of the heart. It can't bear it anymore, the world, the future it holds... the way things are. It feels powerless.
I feel powerless.
A vice in the making, unnamed, unrecognized, but there. "Let me in and take hold of your world, make you numb, let you wither into the Void with more ease" it breathes into my ear while holding my head in its embrace. Its lips almost pressed against mine: "You have lived your life, and you tried and tried... you gave it your all, but alas, nothing came of it... you have achieved nothing." I glimpse a look around and see humans trying to break through a bubbling sea of grey, colorless mud, mumbling in agony:
I am someone. I must be someone. I need to be someone. I must, I must... be something.
And there it is, in horror I observe, powerless, seduced by shadows of myself, the passage of time and in it, my insignificance.
Life has become a play, a comedy and I observe, seeking entertainment in an ever growing dull world. I want to give up, I want to indulge this drug my shadows offer. But I despise my shadows, my past selves, and I do not trust them. The world goes on, ignorant of the suffering of millions... genocides, wars, lies; it is completely detached of any meaning. The world just is, a machine performing the algorithm thrust upon it by the big bang. And there I am, a process spun up by existence trying for meaning, observing.
What a waste of resources
Indeed, in this indulgence, apathy, numbness, to the world I become nothing but a waste of resources.
I could be so much more, a force for good, a factor to ending suffering, a bulwark against evil... existence in itself might be devoid of meaning, but we are not. Another lesson the passage of time teaches. Change lies in my hands, all it takes is action. Not giving in, not giving up.
And it becomes simple. Everything becomes clear. With age, an understanding emerges that eluded me. Waiting for things to change, the puzzle to assemble on its own... to then reap the fruits of others labors; what else could be more selfish, arrogant and defeatist. Seeing the world like a game, expecting a return for struggle and giving up if the reward doesn't materialize... loosing, winning, immaterial to the world, to the universe. Living life like a candle light, beware of the gust of wind that might put me out!
How pathetic.
When I look back who I wanted to be and who I've become, I realize that I manifested all the things I tried to avoid; by my own hands, by my own actions I now sit here and lament. The darkness calls and I want to give in. But it also reveals:
Through my own actions I've arrived here. Through my own actions I can leave, too.
The more time passes, the more courages emerges to change. Without recognition, without fame, fully in acceptance to dissolve into the sea of crying humans, fighting to leave the bubbling mud of the struggle for relevancy.
I might disappear, but my actions... my actions will live through others.
And through this, I'll become eternal. Forgotten, nameless, but pure.
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