She loves me… She loves me not
I’m not certain that I have a care or even mind her love. Whether it is there or not, it is so detached, as I have become so detached.
Of the millions and billions of people in this world, the thought one could possibly stomach the critique of everyone else and make everyone love them is ludicrous. And yet there is a reason for each individual, is there not? I’d say “for each person,” but that’s not quite right either, is it? In our minds, we reduce one another to a category of ranked importance to the extent that there are a few you’d die for, a handful you say you love, some you don’t mind, a large portion you are acquainted with, and the vast majority of people who are simply dynamic objects which your existence flirts with, occasionally brushing closer to get a better look, but they are objects nonetheless.
I do not condone this thought. Rather, I abhor it and find that it is the reason for the madness in the world, and there certainly is madness.
But now think of every person as a person, with all of the depth and intricacies that you have in your life. That may be too overwhelming a thought… Perhaps consider each object having the complexities and minutia of your friends. It is still a bit to crowded in the human mind to allow for that sort of consideration, but it is achievable, if you’ve got a week or ten days to wrap your head around it. Once this stage of enlightenment is pursued, and assuming one does not eternally close their eyes for fear of seeing their friends hurting and dying and celebrating and singing in joyous rapture, the world begins to unfold like a rose bud. The intimately nested stories of each individual in the world overlap yet unravel, and together, the Beauty that is the world blooms in deafening spring.
I do not believe in coincidence, though I do not mind if one does. It’s just not for me.
And so the individual Beauties of the world complete one another, for without one, each adjacent pedal is affected and fades, the rose falls apart at the receptacle, and all that remains is the barren peduncle. You see, we hold one another up, and in the same way, may tear each other down. And I do not mean this in a way of emotions like ecstasy and depression, and I do not intend it in the way of physical being, neither in life nor death.
I intend to imply that if one that has been was not, in any sense or dimension, the rest of all those who are simply could not be.
Even an unborn baby teaches the mother or father or indifferent-third-party-witness to love or hate life. It could teach one to hold on to hope, and it could cause another to utterly disown any definition of hope. There is no such thing as inconsequential existence.
And this is no political statement, for I will not reveal my stance on abortion nor any other such subjects. This is, in its fundamental form, the argument for sheer existence.
And so, in the rose of eternity, we are all Beauty. It is not possible to pluck any one individual from that rose and claim they did not have a purpose. The fact that they are lays claim to the fact that they are.