Death is a hunter for some. For others, it's just another humiliation in this life, preventing them from being something worthwhile, shortening lifes time even further. But death is the moment when love manifests itself most. Love in the most clichéd form of purity, but love in the general sense, because as I said, I don't understand much about love (and for me, it's not a very important thing... but that's a topic for another day, hehe), a love that involves friendships, brotherhood, the simple yet grandiose solo presence, and even romantic and familial love. In the moment of loss , you realize how much you loved the presence of that departed being. In the moment of loss, you realize how much you loved the presence of that departed being. How artistic they were with their way of speaking, bringing harmony to your family or just to you, moving, etc. And then, you begin to carry that being's life with you, immortalizing their existence. Life and death are th...
This restlessness of not feeling like you belong is a broken perfection that leads you to believe that only by having a title, a world, and a meaning will you be worthy of being alive. It's not just young people just starting out in life who suffer from this and feel an insufficiency in their own bodies, but also adults who often feel lonely or whose "responsible" life is so heavy that a great uncertainty about one's own performance begins to grow to an abnormal level. Then, a distortion of reality creeps into your head, a feeling that nothing is right. Thus begins the journey of unintentionally escaping your own nature and world to fit into another that doesn't belong to you, much less your dignity.
Surrendering to a perfection that doesn't give you pleasure or satisfaction is what completely shatters your sense of your actions, your thoughts, etc. Trying to fit into a world that doesn't belong to you transforms you into another being, not something real. To be truly human, you need to limit your freedom and your art to your own satisfaction to create your world and your own reality so that it becomes something attainable to your innocently limited and human mind. There's no point in striving for perfection if you can't see your body as art, especially the body that, like the universe, is something with many different shapes, many different existences, and many different colors, stripes, shines, and smells. Ghosts and masterpieces of the void. Each being is a mysterious masterpiece waiting to be discovered, and if you don't limit your freedom to some dream, some meaning of life, or even a lifestyle—your art—this masquerade will be infinitely confusing, and you will always feel excluded, lost amidst a colorful and bizarre crowd.
To be truly human is to exist for the grace of living, to do things for the grace of life, not to fill an existential "portfolio" and then apply to a world employing an artistic style that isn't adaptable to you. And with that, just as every work adapts to absorb every "error" to be seen as some ultimate, incredible masterpiece, it will torture you to truly be a part of it. Another being. Another style. Another faith.
And just as young people or adults will forever have an objection to their art, there will always be those who can barely defend themselves.
Life itself is meaningless, yet infinite.
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