I sat in my favorite corner in the library, breathing in the magic and utter magnificence of shelves and shelves of stacked works of art waiting to be opened and cherished, veiling words endowed with the power to change life as you know it. I gazed at all those books, and as always I was overwhelmed by the legion of voices, thoughts and ideas that made it to print, that will be preserved in paper and ink forever. And then slithered in a thought. My exuberance was shadowed and I felt sad as I thought about all the wonderful books I’d never read. I thought about all the stories I’ll never know, all the voices I’ll never hear, all the feelings I’ll never feel.
What of all the thoughts I’ve had and never told anybody. What of all the wonderful things I’ve said when no one was listening. What of all the words in my diary that no one will ever feel. What if in one particular moment in the universe, had there not been a simple affecting factor and my words would have been heard by the right person exactly at the right moment, a life could have been drastically altered. What if that alteration would have been for the better?
If someone asked me what the point of life is, I would say there is no point. Bad things happen to good people, innocents are slaughtered, hard labor isn’t rewarded, happiness is a mere fleeting chimera, a writing in the sand washed away as soon as the tide rolls back in. But in all honesty, I don’t know what the point of everything is. Lost moments, lost time, lost people, lost love, lost words, they can never truly be recovered in their pristine divinity. So what was ever the point in their existence? It’s like grabbing air in your palm and trying to hold on to it.
A million questions. A million worries. A million doubts. A million fears. A million regrets. How are you supposed to be okay with living in such uncertainty in an ever transient universe, with the ever increasing probability of a million things going wrong. Loss. Death. Pain. Grief. Injustice. Loneliness. Darkness. Rejection. Wrong Decisions. An unfathomable utterly endless infinity of dark prospects.
I truly am nothing but a bundle of contradictions. I’ve said this before, there is a touch of melancholy in everything beautiful, a shade of black in every colorful combination, a thorn in every rose. A million unread books for every one book that you do read. A million unsaid words for every word you say. A million bad days for every good one.