I am alone in this universe. Like. Completely.
I’m still amazed at how everything means something on a scale of nothing to everything depending on the person you talk to. Like we are small and insignificant but not really because we are all we have. When you look at the universe and you know it isn’t personal, yet you feel as though it is— why is that? It’s kind of hopeful and desperate but calm. Like we are absolutely nothing but we are alive in this one moment. You stare at something and you will notice more and more about it. There is something metaphorical and beautiful in anything, no matter how tiny or ugly or irrelevant. The fact that you can’t even really grasp the most mundane object in your house is just a testament to the futility of having consciousness. You understand its function, you understand it on a certain level, but you don’t understand what it means when you try to fit it into this bigger picture. So like maybe trying to make a bigger picture is the human’s mistake, but then again…can we escape the grandiose universe we hunger for?
I’ve always had trouble pushing myself from observing to experiencing, but I try to remind myself that it is the interaction— it is the inhaling and the exhaling— that I should live for, even if that means I will eventually suffocate. I still can’t push myself to accept that some things must end. I can end. But some things shouldn’t end. It just doesn’t seem right that we are in these bodies. Not right to me at all.
I kinda want to say reading The Fault in Our Stars was a mistake due to the amount of sadness/tears/fuck no fuck no fuck no sentiment it caused me, but yeah. It wasn’t. One of the best modern books I’ve read in a long, long time.