Life is never intentionally harmful to you, or anyone and anything whose existence begins and ends with them. Because how could they, when even something as sharp as a rose’s thorn has its own use and things that we thought ought to destroy things, will eventually decay and disappear into nothingness. Eventually, everything that comes from void will return to oblivion.
Maybe we just need a scapegoat, or an object to convey our gratitude to. The way we feel we are entitled to good and bad things, because of the judgments we put on ourselves. But life simply keeps records about how we fill the years of our lives. Be it with rage or laughter, or comforts we steal from the pain of another. Life takes notes of the memories from days passing by. The voices of our loved ones make this life nothing less than a party.* And their shoulders are a place you run to before you step off the edge and let the fall consume you.
In between the crowd and a quiet night, across the impulses that push you to run from your own body and the pull of rose-tinted polaroids you keep close to your heart, your existence still belongs to life. Even if it breaks into shards of glasses that cut your skin open, they are never intentionally harmful.
Maybe the hands that hold you never prepared you for the war. Maybe they didn’t know how to. Maybe they did know and you have seen the battle, but you never know how to translate them into the language that your mother taught you. Maybe they did know and you paced yourself to understand them, but the stream in the deeper part of the ocean is stronger than your skilled feet could ever handle.
We only learned from what we’ve seen before the storm arrives, simply because the weather changes constantly and it’s never the same as the day before. We read and we slipped into the knowledge that’s been passed down to us, but time moves in a speed that we can never count. We were never fully prepared because we were born without the ability to foresee how the years of our lives will unravel before us. Our lives were different from our predecessors and we can never remember the lives we lived before this one.
Life created us (and will bring us) without handing the manual. Because it doesn’t have any harmful intention, nor the desire to put everyone on the pedestal. And its memories are reset to zero every time it has finished counting to one. We were born only with fragments, not the whole puzzle. And there is no one to blame. Life only knows how to create and end us, while keeping a binded bundle of books that store the ashes of our days. We never know how to truly condemn nor commend its duties because it will never intentionally harm or praise us. Everything is us, and only us to take responsibility for.
