Disease. War. Depression. Misery. Death.
The story of the world today chronicles around this paradigm. Be it the Gaza conflict or the bitter news of someone close afflicted by cancer, there’s not a sliver of hope anywhere. The worst part is only the most innocent seem to be given the worst. Is it the brilliant girl’s fault that she lost the love of her life in a society that reeks of ostracizing against widows? Perhaps it was the blind boy’s karma that got to him when his mother got terminal cancer. I am tired of sympathizing with people and sympathizing with myself. Do I become a masochist, inflicting pain upon myself so I may not feel selfish for singularly feeling happy when misery floats around depreciating hope? It feels strangely hypocritical writing about love and joy and anything not connected to pain when there is so much of it around for inspiration. I am leaning too much towards idealism, maybe? I think I don’t really know anything right now. I refuse to delve myself too much into religion, and yet find myself wanting to accuse Him, falteringly because of fear on one hand, of unfairly doling out misery in haphazard proportions to those that least deserve it. Perhaps it is true, the concept of the “absentee landlord” but somewhere my conservative upbringing refuses to believe it, for it it is in my blood that when all is lost, a force helps you. One interpretation of this force is God, but to me the interpretation is forever hope.
Maybe the Indian scriptures are right after all. We are now in the Kali Yuga, in a world chronicling despair. Maybe all this is in the mostly ambiguous plans that the unknown force has laid out for us. Still, it is this submission of life into the hands of some indomitable force, this helplessness that irks. If man were not supposed to take his destiny into his own hands, he should not have been bestowed with the ability to think. But this train of though makes me shudderingly think of all those young girls of four being raped by insane pedophiles, when they clearly do not know enough to think. How are they to save themselves then, how are they to take their fates on their own hand. Worse, how about the cases of female infanticide where hypothetical iron ladies are crumbled to dust before flesh forms? So, yes humans can think, but to think you need to develop, and to develop you need to live. I wonder if it is terrorists we go to begging for our lives, abandoning the moral compass, the government, abandoning dignity, or God, abandoning/ in the quest for hope.
Call me weak. Some part of me says that if I were Atlas, I would abandon the earth. Why do humans have emotions at all? If we did not know extreme happiness we would not mind sadness, if we did not feel hope we would not mind despair and if we did not feel , we would exist, which is more that what a lot of people are doing right now. In the wide depressing ocean of grief then, do the droplets of joy fading into nothingness count? I don’t know. Furthermore, I might sound selfish in saying I don’t want to find out. I just want to live without the hundred voices around me screaming despondently and the one voice inside me asking if it should shout too, just to match the ones outside. Soon, osmosis should start acting up, and the voices outside will start seeping in.
Sigh. Hot pasta awaits. I will be joyous in the tiny ways I can until guilt seeps in again.