In Another Universe (Maybe We Turned Out Okay)

Messy hair, bloodshot eyes, an oversized tank top. The hours after twelve can be difficult on the mind, bringing it to an ethereal place where nothing seems real; everything seems to fade in slow motion, the minute hand on the clock moves at a drudging pace.  She'd fallen asleep right after dinner, just as the sun was setting in the sky. She closes her eyes, subtle sunshine piercing through her white curtains. The sound of nothing fills the air, as slumber wraps itself around her fragile body. Dreams don't come easy but memories do. Some nights, both come at the same time. 

She's flying through the clouds of an August sky, hills of green rolling underneath her as the sky paints itself in vibrant shades of baby blue and evening lavender. The air drifting through her clothes, guiding her along her path, her eyes close shut as the breeze makes its way to her loving face. Suddenly she's on the couch, sprawled on the fabric with her phone in her hand, one eye buried in the pillow in front of her while the other peeks at the screen. Its emptiness causes her to drop the phone, indifference leads to tears on a yellow blanket. 

Why is it so difficult to care? 

Somewhere along the way, she listens to her own breathing, the beating of her heart. 

The meaning to life is not some universal truth but rather a personal choice. Our lives gain their meaning from us and no one else. When we leave this tremendous responsibility in the hands of others, we only end up hurting ourselves; dried tears on our shirt sleeves, wandering eyes staring upwards at the ceiling. 

During the spring months, she wakes from sleep with a renewed sense of hope, affirmed by the sight of blossoming flowers outside her window. Autumn is not as forgiving. The leaves falling, the wool sweaters, and the occasional days of rain always seem to kindle a flame of nostalgia within her heart, a yearning for a time long passed. 

Days when the burden of living wasn't so heavy, and loving people wasn't the most difficult thing to do in the world. It seems that the older you grow, the harder it becomes to care for others. We get so caught up in our own insecurities and doubts that the lessons we learned as children are no longer second nature. Saying please and thank you, holding the door open for someone, apologizing for when we hurt another, being compassionate and showing empathy, these habits die the moment we suffer and choose selfishness over selflessness. 

Perhaps it is difficult to love others, perhaps we do grow old with each passing day and experience our own personal sufferings throughout the span of our lifetime. Perhaps it is difficult being human, to feel what we feel. To experience what it means to not be enough for someone, to feel cheated, deceived and hurt. 

Heartbreak and disappointment chisel our inner character. Difficulty is the wayside arrow pointing towards a rugged, uneven path to greatness. 

She writes these words as sunrise approaches, her eyes struggling to remain open. Her window is partly open, an early morning breeze squeezes through the space, gently pulling her hands off the page, her body off the chair and onto endless seas of swirling blankets and pillows. Her eyes close as the sky turns light blue, a page written on her desk, honest words arriving from her dreams, true beauty drawn from her memories. 

you lie all the time

Stars, Gennady Sergeevich Mironov, 1989