Life, I find, is either described in great complexity with layers and eternal misunderstandings or as a very great, yet very simple wholeness. A grand illusion or a resounding scheme that strings all our souls together as one; a global tapestry of forces, all manners of dark and light, that leak into each other and in turn become a singular soul; a singular God. We are born feeble and weeping, and die just the same, as we are meant to. The perversion of this natural order comes when one has not lived enough to crumple at the twilight of life and has not been lined and greyed with the ironic tragedies that we must learn through living. For to truly accept death we must have filled our cup to the brim, and savoured every last drop. We must leave no stone unturned and no road untraveled or else we leave a thought trailing out there in the wind, beckoning to us; “what if?” To appreciate life, to truly appreciate the simple and extraordinary beauty of life we need to know of death; something many of us are lucky not to be acquainted with. Yet, that’s the irony of it isn’t it? We can’t fully appreciate the air in our lungs, the comfort of a friend, the bleeding colours of a sunset, without that tragedy. Beauty seems to walk hand in hand with tragedy, and that will always be so. Never did something beautiful come without pain.
Love comes with loss. Birth comes with death. That is the inevitability of it all. That patient friend waits for us at the end of our road, who we seem to forget so regularly that his name shakes us into fretfulness and denial. Yes, he waits. He watches. He even whispers his name to you sometimes to keep your pride or your coldness away. The promise of his all-concluding touch inspires even the hardest of men to whimper at their age, or pray for their darkest thoughts and their most selfish deeds. And we have many. Yet why? It seems to be only the unfulfilled and those who feel they have not achieved their sole purpose here in life or have left a mark on mankind that is worth keeping their name alive for, feel afraid of death. They need a consolidation that their lives have not been in vain, that they done all they possibly could with the time they were allotted. Perhaps that is the first sin of a young death; that their loved ones knew they could have spent so many more years leaving even more significant marks upon the world. I try to hold onto the belief that there is a greater plan set in place for us all, as we all do when young lives are lost or trying times make us question the meaning of it all. I don’t believe we have this answer withheld from us because we do not deserve it, but because we couldn’t possibly comprehend it. Nor are we meant to. It is not ours for now, ours is life and living, and what comes after it is something and everything and all of us. We exist as us, as one, as more than life. We return home to the shore, as droplets in a great sea of energy, love and life, existing and knowing as one great ocean, or as the grains of sand upon the shore, coming together as an infinite, expanding canvas.