In a world that happens only once, everything is both important and not important at all. But can I allow myself to believe that the entirety of our existences is nothing but a snap of the fingers, a small murmur in an otherwise peaceful sea? Humans were quick to utilize the energy of light because we wanted to keep the darkness, the infinite void that has given birth to us and what will eventually swallow us again, away. Away. That concept is like a paper boat nudged into a muddy puddle accumulated in a pothole after a spring rain: there is no edge of the word and no euphoric sunset to sail into. We are alone.
Loneliness is like the void because we never know when it will end. Happiness, sadness, despair, and all of what happens inside of our minds is not restrained by the laws of the universe. Emotions are not contained within the chamber of the wrinkled gray organ that rests within our skulls. They are as close as we can get to that euphoric sunset. Sometimes they exist within, and sometimes they have a way of painting the world around us in different types of hues. Sometimes we feel as if only the particular set of circumstances that has lead us to this point could only allow us to feel a certain way, and sometimes we can look into somebody’s eyes and see only ourselves in them. So if emotions, the current of our lives, have a way of distorting and enchanting reality, why must I believe that the word travels down a line that ends, that is adheres to the mathematical certainty of the value of one and then that of zero?
We only consider our bodies in terms of its physical interactions with gravity, matter, decay, and time, but do we ever consider our bodies in terms of it being a direct representation of our entity? Our minds have the tendency of reaching beyond the confines of our physical beings and transforming the word into a manifestation dictated by whatever is happening within our heads. Reality is therefore tainted by the innate notion that we are in control of it; that it was created by us and that it exists only within the scope of our eyeballs and thoughts. We’re never just bodies with superior cognitive skills. We’re not objects: we’re gods. And if we’re gods, why must reality succumb to insignificance of happening only once?
Memories are ghosts that nobody is afraid of. We treat them with uncertainty and pity. What do we do with them after they have settled somewhere in the depths of our minds? When they have already been stripped of the necessary lessons, emotions, and consequences, what can we do but treat them like delicate antiques, hoping that they will mature into anecdotes sometime in the future? And what is the future, if not a collection of memories that have not happened yet? Don’t we all treat the future with the same nostalgia as the past because we have the same amount of control over both? Both are just fragments of time manipulated by our minds, somewhat grounding us to reality. However important they may be, they will only occur once in the physical word and an infinite number of times in our minds because even though these memories are born from the incessant marching of time, they are released from it once we lay claim to them. And because memories are infinite, why must they happen only once?
What do I do when all my actions happen only once but also never happen again? How do I understand the fact that I have only once chance to fill a certain segment of time, but that chance will pile up with all the other chances that have happened only once. We’re lucky that human thoughts are not linear or logical. Perhaps it makes life easier.
Inspired by the novel The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera