There Is So Much To Be Said
There is much to be said about life. There are so many complexities, so many intricacies, so many facets, that the task to know them all is insurmountable. It is a cliché, but there is so much to be done, to be examined, and so little time. There are distractions, that much is certain. We all cope, we all try to find a way not to have to face the essential contradiction of being human, of being thrust into life with no choice in the matter, of the split between what we are and what we hope to be, of the split between the intrinsic value that we cannot help but see in ourselves and the undeniable insignificance of our individual contributions to the world in the grand scheme of things, of the split between our unending attempts to hold on, to preserve, to sustain, with the ever changing, ever fleeting nature of ourselves, of the world, of everything.
There is so much to be said about ourselves. We are all so weak and so flawed. We are all such children, left wanting in so many respects that we do the one thing we always knew how, the one reflex that we were pushed out into this immense wide world with - we cry out. Perhaps it is not always with tears and a strained wail. Perhaps it’s the gentle strumming of a guitar; perhaps it’s a downtrodden look walking the street at some early morning hour; perhaps it’s a song, a poem, a job, a relationship, a groan of frustration, a moan in the middle of the night, a phone call made at dawn where you feel so much, and so strongly, but have so little to say. Whatever the means, we are programmed, or taught, or simply know, to express, to put something out into the world even if, and perhaps especially if, there is no one there to notice.
There is so much to be said about our language. These clumsy words that lead to disagreement and misunderstanding, that fail to capture that dizzying complexity, scope, and variety of thought. They can be arranged to present us with some measure of beauty, to give us a glimpse of transcendence, to provoke us with poignancy, or even to make us laugh, or leave us in awe. They can also be carefully constructed to pierce, to harm, to expose an underlying ugliness that haunts every stray look and every little whisper. They both connect us to this peculiar world we find ourselves in, and alienate us from it. They allow us to conjoin ourselves with others, and to separate ourselves from them, leaping into a world of doubletalk and rhetoric from which we may never recover. There are words of love, of hate, of joy, of pain, and even words of emptiness, uttered simply to pass the time.
There is so much to be said about time. The little raindrops of temporality that drip down through the very heart of us, cold and striking, that dictate so much and yet seem to pass by so quickly. The piercing needles, slowly but surely taking blood from our veins until they finally rest. The ticks of a clock, the little noises that mark the spaces between one second and the next, churning away until we lose count and it becomes one endless ocean of moments loosely sewn together into an intractable morass. The eternal flow that both penetrates us and carries us along. No structure, no place, no one is immune from its currents, its eddies, its undertow, constantly dragging, pulling, whisking us away from where we were, never to be again.
There is so much to be said about pain. The stinging sensations of lack and absence and the cutting sentiment of want. The harsh realizations that can paralyze us, that can beleaguer us, that can numb us. There is a weight to be carried by every man, woman, and child, and everyone carries a different load, with a different form, a different pressure, a different strength, but we all walk with its callous bundle of gravity pressing down upon us. The failed aspirations and unachievable goals that loom, taunt, and haunt us if we are not careful enough to turn away, to keep our glances brief, to soldier on.
There is so much to be said about love. The idea that some level of companionship, some deep connection between one another can sustain us. The blistering lies we tell ourselves in search of this ideal, that this time will be better, that this time will work, because maybe it’s easier than going it alone. For the moments of joy, of comfort, when despite those contradictions which plague the very foundation of our existence, we find ourselves at peace with the world. The people we keep in our lives not merely because we enjoy their company, but because in a very unique, very individual way, we owe it to each other, through our shared past experiences, through our hopes for the future, through our wish to make it through this moment into the next, to walk down the path together. With our parents, with our children, with our dearest friends, with the people who lift us up and who we can somehow lift up at the same time, and moreover, who help us to lift ourselves.
There is so much to be said about death. About the hand that plucks us from this world as readily and indiscriminately as that which pushed us into it. When I die, I want it to be the final scene, in the final act, of a grand play, epic and moving, discreet but overwhelming. I want the orchestra to swell, with violins screeching a sad lament, the lights dimmed as a solitary character wails out one last note, one last word, one last bow, with a bouquet of colors darting between the elegant stage and the eager eyes of the audience as the last chord is struck, a curtain falls, and they burst into a steady stream of applause. Yet I expect it to be a mere, bare, slow, unnoticed departing from the stage. Death is not this majestic, dramatic exit that I envision. It is merely a final walk out of the spotlight, while the scene continues to play.
There is so much to be said of so many things. Of kings and peasants. Of gods and of demons. Of hopes and dreams. Of losses and lacks. Of friends and enemies. Of pleasures and pains. Of living and dying. Of creation, and destruction, and everything that lies in between.
And yet, I can only barely begin to speak.
There is so much to be said about ourselves. We are all so weak and so flawed. We are all such children, left wanting in so many respects that we do the one thing we always knew how, the one reflex that we were pushed out into this immense wide world with - we cry out. Perhaps it is not always with tears and a strained wail. Perhaps it’s the gentle strumming of a guitar; perhaps it’s a downtrodden look walking the street at some early morning hour; perhaps it’s a song, a poem, a job, a relationship, a groan of frustration, a moan in the middle of the night, a phone call made at dawn where you feel so much, and so strongly, but have so little to say. Whatever the means, we are programmed, or taught, or simply know, to express, to put something out into the world even if, and perhaps especially if, there is no one there to notice.
There is so much to be said about our language. These clumsy words that lead to disagreement and misunderstanding, that fail to capture that dizzying complexity, scope, and variety of thought. They can be arranged to present us with some measure of beauty, to give us a glimpse of transcendence, to provoke us with poignancy, or even to make us laugh, or leave us in awe. They can also be carefully constructed to pierce, to harm, to expose an underlying ugliness that haunts every stray look and every little whisper. They both connect us to this peculiar world we find ourselves in, and alienate us from it. They allow us to conjoin ourselves with others, and to separate ourselves from them, leaping into a world of doubletalk and rhetoric from which we may never recover. There are words of love, of hate, of joy, of pain, and even words of emptiness, uttered simply to pass the time.
There is so much to be said about time. The little raindrops of temporality that drip down through the very heart of us, cold and striking, that dictate so much and yet seem to pass by so quickly. The piercing needles, slowly but surely taking blood from our veins until they finally rest. The ticks of a clock, the little noises that mark the spaces between one second and the next, churning away until we lose count and it becomes one endless ocean of moments loosely sewn together into an intractable morass. The eternal flow that both penetrates us and carries us along. No structure, no place, no one is immune from its currents, its eddies, its undertow, constantly dragging, pulling, whisking us away from where we were, never to be again.
There is so much to be said about pain. The stinging sensations of lack and absence and the cutting sentiment of want. The harsh realizations that can paralyze us, that can beleaguer us, that can numb us. There is a weight to be carried by every man, woman, and child, and everyone carries a different load, with a different form, a different pressure, a different strength, but we all walk with its callous bundle of gravity pressing down upon us. The failed aspirations and unachievable goals that loom, taunt, and haunt us if we are not careful enough to turn away, to keep our glances brief, to soldier on.
There is so much to be said about love. The idea that some level of companionship, some deep connection between one another can sustain us. The blistering lies we tell ourselves in search of this ideal, that this time will be better, that this time will work, because maybe it’s easier than going it alone. For the moments of joy, of comfort, when despite those contradictions which plague the very foundation of our existence, we find ourselves at peace with the world. The people we keep in our lives not merely because we enjoy their company, but because in a very unique, very individual way, we owe it to each other, through our shared past experiences, through our hopes for the future, through our wish to make it through this moment into the next, to walk down the path together. With our parents, with our children, with our dearest friends, with the people who lift us up and who we can somehow lift up at the same time, and moreover, who help us to lift ourselves.
There is so much to be said about death. About the hand that plucks us from this world as readily and indiscriminately as that which pushed us into it. When I die, I want it to be the final scene, in the final act, of a grand play, epic and moving, discreet but overwhelming. I want the orchestra to swell, with violins screeching a sad lament, the lights dimmed as a solitary character wails out one last note, one last word, one last bow, with a bouquet of colors darting between the elegant stage and the eager eyes of the audience as the last chord is struck, a curtain falls, and they burst into a steady stream of applause. Yet I expect it to be a mere, bare, slow, unnoticed departing from the stage. Death is not this majestic, dramatic exit that I envision. It is merely a final walk out of the spotlight, while the scene continues to play.
There is so much to be said of so many things. Of kings and peasants. Of gods and of demons. Of hopes and dreams. Of losses and lacks. Of friends and enemies. Of pleasures and pains. Of living and dying. Of creation, and destruction, and everything that lies in between.
And yet, I can only barely begin to speak.