What does it mean to live? Think about this. It’s really a simple question. The answer should be equally simple too. What does the word “Live” mean? What else could it mean other than to have a life, to be alive, or adversely, to not be dead.
But what does it mean to die? It has been argued by me on several occasions that we die in many ways. We experience death while living alive—and some people live lifelessly, always following, always wishing they were someone, somewhere, or someplace else. What kind of life is that?
The news came and I could not move. Time took on a strange appeal. I was frozen somehow, moving in slow motion, but yet, time was quickly ticking away from me.
I was young at the time. I was only 17 years-old but stunted in a way—like a child, or more accurately, I was stunned and child-like, almost like an infant’s pause before the pain strikes and the cry begins.
It was December and I was away in a place that was very foreign to me. I was on The Farm in lieu of jail, which would have been a sentence of one year, plus 90 days.
This meant I would have to serve close to one year in a place where I could neither physically nor mentally compete. I pulled a trick though. Or should I say my attorney pulled a trick. He landed me in a program called T.A.S.K. which was an acronym for something that helps young, first-time offenders with a youthful offender stipulation that would eventually falls from the records of past.
I wanted to explain this to you in a different way. My hope is this will bring you some comfort during the upcoming days,
I am writing this to you to bring a little understanding about depressive thinking and the unending cycle that comes with it.
I wanted to reach out to you specifically to explain a bit more about me so that maybe you will understand a bit more about you and the things you’ve faced in your past.
First and foremost, please allow me to officially explain that you are far from alone. There are millions of us out there, lost, unsure, uncomfortable, and unable to see a light at the end of the tunnel.
Before going forward, please understand that I make no assumptions about you or your pain; however, I am offering this explanation to make sense of one of the most senseless kind of deaths known to man,
There are things which can heal us. These are simple things, like the touch of a hand or the sound of a voice. Believe me. I know about this, first hand.
There are things that can warm us during cold times. For example this sight of a smile or to hear the laugh of someone we love. These things are important.
They cure better than any medicine, which is not to say that medicine is unnecessary. But still, there are simple things around us, even on gloomy days, which if we utilize—these things have healing qualities like no other. I’m sure of it.
The truth is everyone is healing from something. All of us have either gone or will go through something tragic in our life. We all go through loss. We all experience fear. We feel, we live, and if we’re lucky, we learn.
Our life is our story.
This is us every day.
We wake up and begin our routine. We walk along this big conveyor belt we call “The World” and weave through different patterns and meet new people. We separate from the pack and create our own lives. We walk along paths that twist and turn, overlap, and interconnect or run parallel.
I think the hardest part of love is the part we cannot control. These are the circumstances beyond our control, like say, the happiness or the health of the ones we love most.
This is true.
This is especially true when we see the people we love and watch them struggle. We want to “Fix it” but we can’t. We want to change the circumstances, but again, due to circumstances beyond our control—there is nothing we can do but watch and feel helpless.
We never really know how much we’ve grown. Until, something happens. Then we look back at how responded as opposed to how we might have responded in the past. Or maybe we see a group of old friends that tell the same old jokes, which used to be funny, but to us the jokes are old. They’re just not funny anymore.