I’ve come to a point in my life where thoughts are a burden. I think a lot about the passage of time. About what ‘forever’ truly means. Honestly, it scares me. It terrifies me. I don’t believe we stop existing when our bodies die. I’ve never believed that, but at the same time I don’t believe any religion is necessarily wrong. It doesn’t feel right to look at someone and say “You’re eternally damned because *insert petty reason here*” I don’t think a creator of so many vastly different things would set such trivial rules. I do believe you reap what you sew, and that what you give is what you will get.
But getting back to the idea of time. I fall asleep in my bed on Monday, and wake up at Friday. At least, that’s what it feels like anymore. I remember being a child, and sitting there watching the clock turn as if I was frozen in the moment. Now I struggle to grasp a day. I think about aging a lot. About how my body will slowly deteriorate in front of my eyes over the years. How my hearing will fade and I find it harder to enjoy the subtle sounds that I love. How my body will eventually become a prison.
I suppose what really scares me is the thought that time won’t slow after I pass. That there is some tier of megadeath after regular death. I fear that I will cease to exist, but at the same time living until forever ‘ends’… Just seems cruel. I realize I’m wasting my time worrying over such existential things I can’t even control, but I can’t stop it. I come back to it every single night.
But then… Then I find comfort in something.
We are human.
We try to understand things, but in the end, how much do we really know? We look at our achievements as some shift in the universe, but it’s more like we’re poking at a piece of sand on the beach of the ocean that is existence. It’s humbling once you realize how small you are. How little you really know. How your perception is based on your surroundings. Don’t use it as an excuse. Use it as a comfort. Each and every one of us has a limit. Your imperfection is what makes you beautiful, like a crack on an old jar or rust on a bucket.
The uncertain is beautiful. It’s absolutely stunning, and it’s what I take solace in.
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