She gazed in the water, speaking slowly. Her face lit with a thousand shimmering ripples. Wind plays with her hair and a few strands of gold get caught in the corner of her lips.
I fight the urge to reach out gently and free them.
Choice...an illusion? or a consciously epitomized empirical fact leading to existential and tangible outcomes emphasizing the singularity and isolation of human experience in a hostile or indifferent universe? Much has already been said on the subject but the neighboring and parallel factors are seldom discussed. Is choice relative? Much like everything else? What are its limits? How is choice weaved in the fabric of life and death? In the time-space continuum? In the grand scheme of the universe?. More importantly what are conscious and unconscious choices? When is choice not present? or not granted? What choices are pre-made by a supernatural superhuman force? And if the preceding proposals are taken to be true, doesn't choice become a paradox in itself? Isn’t the concept or the very idea of choice rendered void?
We all chose the life we lead. Is it a conscious choice? for most of us most of the time I believe it is not. There is a choice between a life of happiness and a life of meaning that we all make. And chose between the two we must as they are parametrically opposed and can only exist as independent entities. To be truly happy one must live absolutely in the absolute present; carpe diem. In a life of meaning one always wallows in the regrets of the past and obsesses about the future thereby eliminating the factors needed for the existence of happiness.
I do not remember making a specific choice between the two, but I find myself living a life of meaning. Would I have made a different choice if I could? probably not. Sometimes the meanings gleaned are worth the absence of happiness, only sometimes. But some losses were too valuable to be suffered. Some sacrifices too grand for a miniscule life. Makes me wonder if a life of happiness would have been different, better...happy.
Some are born with tragedy running in their veins, pulsating rhythmically, full of life and yet lethal to all but the host. Like the carrier of a deadly virus. Dangerous to all but himself. Ironic. Tragedy requires sustenance. It requires immortality or something close to it. The virus, unable to manifest itself without the host. Tragedy exists until the blood flows and so protects its host as a survival mechanism.
Making us, the carriers, stronger...
Almost invincible.
Tragedy is written in genes. Hard-coded in the DNA as an Almighty, Omnipotent instruction bleeding its venom in every possibility, every choice, every dream, every hope, every action, every feeling...everyone. Multifaceted as it is, choosing its poisons from an arsenal of treachery and betrayal, loss and failure, regret and remorse, pain and suffering.
Classic depiction of Evil, a being walking through a green field, sucking the life out of every blade of grass, flowers wilting at his mere presence. The dichotomic evil of tragedy in my veins compelling, goading, luring you to stab at a perforated back, making you cause pain, making you disloyal, dishonest...distant. Sometimes against your very nature. Don't be surprised; it’s not you, it’s me...and I'll understand.
You think you can outrun your daemons. All in hopes of ameliorating the debacle of a stunted life. Never realizing they are the life-blood in your veins. And finally when the realization strikes, you lose the illusionary comfort of your already torn and shredded security blankets; the few that you have.
Ugliness is an unforgiveable sin in this brutal world. Is it the shape of your nose or the color of your skin, is there more to it?. How do you get rid of ugliness? is it all relative; a social conformity, a drive to satisfy the herd instinct or is ugliness really ugly?. Flinching, shuddering, retching, repulsively ugly. Ugliness; a breeding ground of unrequited feelings and emotions. Creating distances.
Distances keep the curiosities piqued and mysteries ablaze. Reducing distances accentuates faults and imperfections which are often unanticipated. However, when distances diminish and affections grow rapidly; alarmingly so, the end is near. The blind witch, getting ready to slash at a frail thread. How many more loses? How much more of misery? Is there heroism in suffering? Does it absolutely require appraisal for its existence?
Have I strength? If my heart still yearns for affection against my will?
You've never been alone, if you haven't been alone in New York City.
