KNOWLEDGE KILLS
The universe is devious in her timing as she runs the game of balance we call life. Two steps forward, three steps back. Abundance pursued by scarcity. Hunger + motivation extinguished by exhaustion + every obstacle possible. Smiling so hard your cheeks hurt — crying so hard your ribs ache. She’ll stop you entirely in your tracks to tease you with everything you’ve asked her for, then tell you you’re not actually ready for it yet. It could be so simple, but what thrill would that be?
That’s the thing about this game called life. If we always knew the plans, what would lead to where, had the answers. If you could watch your entire life, birth to death, like a movie — would you? The thought of knowing isn’t as comforting as I like to theorize it would be. To know is to kill the hopes, dreams, fantasies, imagination. The desire. The chase. Like knowing the ending to a book where the main character dies and the charmer is the one who killed her. You’d never get attached to the main character nor would you allow yourself to be charmed — you already know what’s going to happen. Save yourself the rollercoaster + disappointment, but deprive yourself of the connection + emotion you could have felt had the ending not be spoiled.
That’s where the beautiful parts lie — the space between the body + the mind. The crevasse between what is + what could be. The unknown. Anxiety? Or fear that the true outcome won’t be what you hope for it to be as you zone out under the deceptive impression that you don’t know what you want — lying to yourself that you’re open to her plans. Even if you’re not ready for the darkness, light cannot be present without it. To fall low implies you were once high. To have a heart broken into pieces alludes it was embraced in the tightest, warmest hug prior to. A full belly as you say “I’m going on a juice cleanse for a week” comes after the best meal you’ve had in a long time. So good you couldn’t stop. “I’m never going out again” as you debrief the most fun you’ve had in months, scrambling the pieces together into a pathetic excuse for a memory. I hate cooking because the kitchen gets dirty, but how lucky am I to have a kitchen that gets dirty. I hate interrupted sleep, but how lucky am I to have a little person who needs only me to be at peace. I’m SPENT at the end of my days, but how lucky am I to have a job — one I am so passionate about + have life changing relationships because of. I hate when my gas light comes on when I’m 10 minutes late with $23.76 in my bank account — but how lucky am I to have a car that needs gas. Here’s the big one, the meat — what you’re waiting for me to get to. I hate falling in love because what happens when it’s over? If I didn’t dive off the cliff in the first place, I wouldn’t have to climb back up — only to probably dive off again.
Damage control. Obsessed with control. Don’t ask for the good + rely on that to avoid the bad. But maybe the bad isn’t so bad. What if the bad is purely an absence of the good. Empty, passionless, predictable. Creativity is meant to flow like a watercolor brush across paper. The heart is meant to love like the sun is meant to rise every morning. Created for relationships — it’s what fills our cup. Keeps us going. Go ahead, avoid it so nothing bad will happen, then lie awake at night, wondering what the empty cavity in your chest is causing you to long for. Love is like fire — it’s powerful, warming, hypnotizing; but it can burn. More than any curling iron or frying pan you’ve touched before. Oddly enough, it’s a burn you can always recover from, even when you have yourself set that’ll never happen. What’s worse — the burn? Or the realization that you fell in love with a fantasy that wasn’t so real after all?
But I’ve always believed love — real, genuine, divine, unwavering love — will always find its way. It’s written in the stars. The storyline isn’t how you would’ve written it, but what if it’s better how she wrote it? If I was offered the opportunity to watch my movie + learn the answer, I’d courteously decline. What will I do if the movie goes on without you? I prefer to live with the small fire of hope, in the space between what is + what could be. Sure, maybe another life — past or future. But I’m in this one, + so are you. What are the odds? I’ll keep writing + you do the same. But don’t be confused when two oceans meet and never mix — merely exist in respect to the other’s power + space; but never seperate. Oil + water. Fire + ice. Positive + negative. You + me? The space between the body + the mind — but will we ever exist outside of that abyss? I’ll savor this hope as the last sip of Cabernet Sauvignon in my glass. I’ll only sip it if you come back to offer me a refill — until then, I’ll swirl it around, counting the drips down the side, as I savor the sweetest smell I’ve ever known.
