Meaning is like many things we lose:
it turns out to be wherever we left it.
But we don’t leave it, it leaves us.
If you’ve never known the feeling of not feeling,
you’ll struggle to understand what I’m telling you,
looking for distant cousins of not-feeling
who bear a superficial resemblance:
like sadness or grief.
There’s a difference between reason and reasons:
reason tells us how to achieve something,
but we must have reasons to want to do anything.
These reasons come from our feelings, and
when we do not have them,
there are no reasons.
And we find no meaning,
no matter where we left it.
Many houses and rivers distant, she looks over my shoulder and wonders why I communicate this way.
Wouldn’t it be easier to write this as a treatise?
Psychology studies these things, it is a matter for science.
But I wonder and she wonders, does anyone really understand? Or, as our understanding grows, do people naturally become more anxious, and less happy?
Do feelings really matter? Or should we just obediently join the herd? Say what others say, admit to feeling only what others feel, stand as other stand, kneel as others kneel, laugh only after others laugh?
There is blood on the pavement, just outside the grocery store. As we are leaving the store, we both notice the blood, but what could we do? We don’t know whose it was, nor what caused it.
But still we see the blood. It’s everywhere we look.
It is on our grocery bags, it is in the food, it is on us.
It is in us.
I marvel at existence.
YouTube exists to remind us that there are more experts than there are videos.
Music exists to be criticized.
The secret desire of many people’s hearts is to be God and judge all mankind.
We argue because it seems to take too much energy to simply kill each other.
Love astounds the universe, and boggles our minds. If you have never had your mind boggled, you need to. Take my word for it.
Love however is mutual and many don’t want love, they want to be loved.
Very few people find anything as attractive as others being attracted to them.
Love is a sort of music: everyone is an expert, even though few people can produce it as well as they might want to.
Love is the antithesis of not-feeling, and it is the balm for our anxiety. Love is the meaning, and the only help for the blood. Through love, even the obnoxious narcissism of would-be experts can be transformed.
It can be, it just rarely is.
Love astounds the universe, because
it sees through.
And we all must all see through