Circle, Cycle, Moving On

by joanabagano

And if we could float away

Fly up to the surface and just start again
And lift off before trouble
Just erodes us in the rain

Sing slow it down.
-Coldplay, Us Against The World

I’ve come here. I’ve come here to this point of being, past hasty decisions and muffled words, unsaid words, unintended words. We all come to this moment in our existence when we realize how mistakes have made us who we are. For me, today is that moment. And happily, today doesn’t happen just now. Today happens every single day I come to my senses and start reveling in my daily ration of blissful and melancholic thinking. Blissful but not exactly joyful. Melancholic but not exactly regretful.

There is just this beautiful tapestry in life where all the things you’ve been through and the things you’ve been are being woven. It’s never finished, unless you mean it to or unless you let it, and if you mean it to it would never be really finished because you’re cutting yourself right where things are just taking their turn for the best. Just where the stitches are starting to form a picture.

I happened to have read the Facebook wall of a person who just committed suicide and my, the Wall posts are overwhelming. People are expressing their sentiments on a page on the Internet, a page among a billion other pages, trying to reach the other side. Does the Internet transcend life and death? When we die, do we become omniscient and omnipotent? Will our souls gain that ability to roam around and know what everyone else is doing? Will we be able to stalk people on a much higher level than how we stalk them on Facebook? I don’t think so. Omnipotence and omniscience are qualities only One being has. Supernatural doesn’t instantly equate to all-knowing or all-seeing. Not very fast.

I don’t know the man who committed suicide and it amazes me to think that I cared so much as to read his whole wall. Death is that mystery that somehow binds every one soul, isn’t it? The great equalizer, they say?

Life has its ways of teaching us lessons, as the saying goes, and whatever hardship you are experiencing now doesn’t just happen randomly. There’s a cause and a path it must have taken and there’s a destination it ought to reach. And I believe it’s not death. No, death is not the destination of a single hardship or a hardship compounded by other hardships. It’s the end of overcoming.

And if that destination of that hardship be the stronger you or the more patient you or the more hopeful you, then by all means, hardship come and drive by. No wise person or no person wanting wisdom could push away the opportunity to become a better version of herself.

I don’t have the right to condemn people who thought they have reached the end of their ropes and decided to just use the rope around their neck. I just don’t want to think it’s a rope, as I said, I believe in a tapestry and it’s a thread. Much as I wouldn’t like to relate my faith with mythology, only Someone from the other side can cut the thread.

I’ve come here and I’ve become somehow preachy, trying to end this little piece with a statement that I’ve used in the first paragraph, trying to stitch things together and have them come full circle. I’ve come here, knowing that this life is a cycle of ups and downs, booms and busts, dips and peaks, highs and lows. To each one a set of challenges are on the plate. On plates. On plates on a table. On plates on tables. Whatever it is someone is going through, no matter how small that whatever is to you, that someone who is taking the challenge is taking his own problem as you are taking yours. The difficulty varies but people receive problems on a rather similar scale. And it takes a great deal of understanding to see that.

I’ve come here and I don’t know exactly where I’m going. All I know is I’ve come here and soon I will be saying this again. In the interim from this moment’s glory to the next, I don’t now. I’ll just keep saying I’ve come here and I will be no less grateful. Life is here, where I’ve come. I’ve come here, where life is.