Weariness of life, contrary to what people imagine, is not weariness of breathing. It is weariness of days that bear no name of their own, each merely a continuation of the one before. As long as a person has something to hold onto, even if it is nothing more than an illusion, they make peace with the world. The breaking point comes when even that illusion collapses, and one realizes that the pillars holding up the roof of their soul have rotted from within.
At that moment, death is not what one longs for; rest is. A deep sleep, without dreams and without morning. Not because one has come to hate life, but because there is no strength left in one’s shoulders to carry its weight.
It is strange how others always seem to have a ready-made prescription in their pockets. They say, “Look, there are people who suffer more than you do.” As though suffering could be weighed on a scale. Is pain a competition? Does one wound heal at the sight of a deeper one? Every person has their own prison, and its walls can only be seen from within.
The hardest part is not the burden itself, but having nowhere left to carry it. Suffering, when there is a destination in the distance, is a road. When that destination disappears, the road becomes an endless torment. Each step exists only to justify the next, with no horizon in sight.
On this endless and quite meaningless road, worst thing one can do is to allow themselves to become a mere spectator of their own existence. A person can spend years working, sleeping, and waking, moving through the days without ever truly entering them.
That is how years disappear. One ordinary day at a time. We wait for something to change, for some distant moment to make the journey worthwhile, while the present slips quietly past us.
While writing this I was reminded of the movie Another Round (2020) which I watched few years ago. Mads Mikkelsen has always been one of my favourite actors, and his portrayal of Martin made the film all the more memorable to me. What stayed with me most was not the drinking. It was the warning beneath it. A person can become so occupied with getting through life that they forget to take part in it. Martin had not stopped breathing. He had simply stopped being present in his own days. By the end, nothing about his life had magically become easier. Pain was there so was the struggle . But when the music started playing again,this time, he chose to dance.
In my destinationless journey, what is left is doing things worth remembering. Laughing when there is little reason to. Dancing while the music is still playing, knowing perfectly well that it will eventually stop.
Surviving is an act of postponing death.
Living despite all the pain, makes sure death doesn’t get everything. Laugh in the wind and let it be carried to the ears that never expected to hear it again.
The clock is going to keep ticking either way. I figured I might as well give it something worth counting.