We are ash and clay and dirt. God-breathed souls in crumbling mortal bodies.
Why do we wonder that life is hard? Life is unrelenting, impassive, and heedless to our grief. It simply happens, as the waves on the ocean happen. We are along for the ride, children on a playground merry-go-round, and it is spinning with a furious intensity until the shouts of glee become shrieks of terror . Sometimes we are flung to the ground by the violence of the movement, dirt upon dirt, hitting hard and laying still to ascertain the damage before rising once more to cling again to the bars with the peeling paint, hands sweaty and metallic from the gripping.
Sometimes the motion is gentler…kinder…and the breeze in our hair and the thrill of the spinning keeps us well pleased to stay.
Mostly, though, I find it is the former experience. Why is that so? Because I was born melancholic? Because I think too much? Because the particular cocktail of chemicals in my brain is less confectionary delight and more science lab experiment gone awry? Because I make it so? Am I the one spinning the blasted thing; somehow spinning and riding at the same time?
I don’t know. Maybe.
Mostly, I’m just tired. I’m tired of platitudes and exhortation. I’m tired of abrupt sorrow and unpleasant surprises. I don’t like surprises, even nice ones. A surprise, in essence, is not nice because its very nature is to startle, which I do not care for. I’m tired of dreams that vanish as quickly as they appear, of hopes that require too much energy to maintain. I want things to just make sense, dammit.
Truthfully, I would like just one thing to make sense.
But what makes sense to dust? Dust cannot comprehend complexity. Dust simply sits, being dusty. Dirt is dirty. Earth is earthy. It is weak stuff. Crumbles in the hand with the slightest pressure. Add water and the right combination of material and you might get brick, or concrete, or adobe, which is another matter.
But I am just dust. Says so right here. And somehow, that thought comforts me. It tells me that I don’t have to understand, that I am not expected to understand. There will be no final exam to this life, no entrance exam for the next. I can just be. And as I am beaten and pounded by life, if I can allow myself to be augmented and built up by my experiences, then one never knows.
Something beautiful might grow out of me. Something lovely might remain.
And that makes some sense.