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The ache in one’s heart can be greater than any bullet wound, sharper than any blade. It beats down on you without end with the weight of a dozen lead blankets. It stays with you wherever you go, whatever you do. Even at the latest hour, when your body yearns desperately for sleep, the reckless thumping in your chest shakes you to wakefulness. So, you sit on the edge of your bed, too exhausted to cry, and reminisce for the times that you spent unappreciative of what you didn’t know you had.All the things so dear, so precious, that were snatched away from you no quicker than they came. Perhaps, if you failed to appreciate it at all, you would never have to feel this way; there would be nothing to miss. Should you have cherished these things more or less? Searching for an answer is without importance, for you are left without an option to change your actions. Maybe, if you could somehow reach through the fabric of time and space, you could possibly change it all.Dear old Mr. Everett’s many-worlds interpretation is but one attempt at organizing the behavior and structure of multiverse. Hugh believed in quantum immortality— that consciousness lives on in the branches in which death is not the next event. Each branch is just as “real” as the next, and not one version of the universe is particularly central. For such a smart man, Hugh was not smart with his health. He died after only a smidge over five decades, leaving the world and his family behind for another version of existence— one where he hadn’t died. One where he hadn’t had so much to drink, or lit so many cigars.Hugh’s consciousness theoretically bounces from branch to branch, preserving itself. With him bounces the consciousness of his daughter Elizabeth, who insisted in her suicide note to be thrown out in the garbage after cremation, in the hope she would one day meet up with her father in the correct parallel universe.One can only hope that Hugh’s theory is correct— perhaps not in the case of immortality on the basis of quantum mechanics, but avoidance of undesirable outcomes. Somewhere along the timeline, there exists a split where you did not make that mistake. The accident never happened. They made the better choice. You, and by extension, the universe, adhered to what was required per the quota in order to be reach the “good ending”.One can only hope for, in some universe, you weren’t feeling as you do now. How happy you would feel for yourself. Oh, what you wouldn’t do to escape this feeling. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. Such a wish would be too cruel and too inhuman even for the most vile, despicable creature. What could have been haunts you constantly, and the cold, tingling rush courses through your extremities, constricting your chest. You struggle to take another breath, let alone divert your attention elsewhere. You want to rest but there is no rest here.All the people passing by, as you once did, all retain their joy. You mustn’t let the envy overtake you as each laughs and smiles without thought, as you once did. They’ve found their correct universe; you were stuck in the wrong one. Somewhere along the line, you lost sight of the correct branch. Faced with each decision, you freeze, knowing the path you take could change it all. You haven’t yet found the next best path.Not yet, that is.
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The moth meme is an example of a niche denomination of comedy-- absurdist surrealism. This has been trending for about four years now, in response to the ever-changing climate of our world and the implications these changes have had on our lives. The moth is existentialist in itself, a social commentary on the depressing absurdity of our own being.
Life itself is a mistake-- a mere mishap of biological circumstance. And so these "little things" that may seem normal and meaningless like the moth, are hilarious and absurd in their own very being. But there are many memes like this. Why does the moth get so much attention?
Well, the moth is all of us. A moth is attracted to something unattainable. It is attracted to the light for a reason it cannot understand. And it crashes into that lamp, over and over, each time increasingly painful. The pain doesn't stop it though. And so that moth eventually kills itself in a desperate attempt to find something (a pleasure? A gratification or nirvana?) which may have never even existed in the first place.
It's sad, but it is also comical in a twisted way. We relate to the moth subconsciously. Maybe you want fame or fortune. Maybe it's something more you seek like love. It's so close, but chasing this thing is an impossible dream. Some people know to stop, but others will try and try, working themselves blow after blow until it finally kills them. Another victim to this vicious cycle. We are all the moth at some point. But it is up to you to choose if you will die as a moth.
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The conception of love, in itself is a universal theme that is wholesomely paradoxical in nature. To hate someone; and yet, to love someone at the same time? The idea of love is a silly and fickle concept which some may presume only the human mind can perceive.
They will tell you that animals in nature are incapable of understanding the notions of love, loyalty, and necessity. Thus, they will act loyal, act like they love you, while planning for your demise. The real reason behind love is necessity and conformity. Is it really love if you are pressured into loving another? Is it really love if you need not the affection, but the material necessity that the person in which you think you love provides?
Ask me this, and I will answer. This is quite a notion to unravel, but we will start from the beginning.
Animals can perceive love-- for we are animals. The argument of conformity can only be exercised to an extent of cases in which love is a norm. It is the social animals that emulate loyalty, compassion, and such. Humans, which are Great Apes, are social animals. In Western society, love is a virtue. It is something one should conform to. Those who struggle with empathy are those who are subsequently deemed mentally ill, often psychopathic or schizoid. Yet, in other cultures, love is not a virtue. Love is weakness, uncivil, illogical. And therefore those who exhibit love are also subscribed to the former adjectives. This is an issue love is a result of the need to conform.
With the topic of love, one must establish solid parameters. Love is general-- the desire for another person or thing for whatever reason. Lust is desire that is purely driven by necessity, specifically material needs and most often sexual needs. Friendship is a mild love that can be driven by necessity, but is rarely lasting if only bound by material needs. Compassion, however, is the unconditional, selfless love. Many common forms of love are a combination of friendship and lust, but the "true love" that you would question is that of compassion.
Compassion is the anomaly. What is the gratification that one may receive if they are willing and ready to sacrifice everything for another person's happiness and well-being? The gratification is the act itself, one might say. Selflessness becomes the necessity, the gratifying thing, and that is the paradox.
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You tell yourself it’s a cliche— that your feelings being a completely unique experience. But it is not completely wrong. No one person can know the exact experience of another person’s existence. They may think they do, and maybe it’s similar, but it will always be far from exact. Until the day we can take a glimpse into each other’s minds, the claim of fully understanding an entire individual cannot hold weight.
A needle sinking slowly into balloon until the pressure becomes too much to bear. The TV static grows louder and louder, overwhelming your senses. Just a smidgeon of emotional stress seems to shred your limbs to slivers.
And all the noises— big and small alike— pummel down like an aerial strike. There is no mercy here. The static demands blood, and it will take all that it can get.
The seams of your clothing rub and chafe and begin to burn into the surface of your skin. It isn’t an ordinary friction burn— no, this is the infernal flames of Hell itself, slicing with a crimson iron blade into the soft tissue below.
Your mind jumps from desolate to swarming, over and over. The lesser of two evils is an impossible choice. Hopefulness is futile. It is but a lie to quell the fleeting sanity. And what good are hopes if disappointment is imminent?
Perhaps this is good protection. Disappointment requires the hope to begin with, so logically one should eliminate the source. Until it backfires and you can never feel genuine, legitimate excitement again. All that is left is anxiety and dread.
When it worsens, you are left with two possible routes.
It knocks you down and time distorts. You become irrational, wobbling with the remainder of your strength. Sensitivity is at maximum while a strange bubble encases you.
Or you can simply funnel into a full-scale meltdown. Everything, everyone, pummels you from every direction, in every possible way— especially yourself. A seething, enormous pain blares through the vicinity like a foghorn. And you self-destruct until exhaustion knocks you over.
You truly want to get close to others sometimes. You want legitimacy, happiness. But at the same time, you hate them, you are too socially inept to even approach acquaintances, or their presence is too miserably overstimulating and it drains the energy right out of your body.
Perhaps you want to be around them but it’s impossible in terms of emotion, so you have to avoid them for your own sake.
If you’re unlucky enough to get attached to somebody, it’s going to eat the fuck away at you. If everything is going splendidly, you are bound to overestimate your own success. Because if one thing goes wrong, you’re a fucking disaster because now it is your fault and your fault alone.
You did this.
You went and fucked up the one good thing.
Congratulations.
Now everything must become a distraction so you don’t think yourself to death.
Never again. Don’t let them in. Don’t get hurt again. It’s your fault.
Hopefully this is something very far from mental grasp. Or maybe this all sounds very familiar. Some details added, some missing. Maybe so, so familiar, you can hear your own voice reciting each word.
Familiar. But not exact.