"To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering."
—Friedrich Nietzsche
The sounds of the crashing waves were blocking the scream of the voices. Like a white noise that cradled my rotting heart, the heart that was pulled out of my ribcage.
I was not living, I was simply existing.
Emotions and feelings were things that shaped humans. Joy, sorrow, or resentment. We were made to feel. Why was our heart placed right inside of the ribcage? Why? Because it was too fragile and soft. Easily broken. Like a butterfly that would be crushed the second we stepped on it. Delicate. Humans held onto the word 'Love' tightly. Like a lifeline.
Yet they still wouldn't leave when their hearts were torn forcefully from their weal—easily broken ribcages. Humans can be the frailest of them all, or rather, the ferocious ones of them all. Each one of them grabbed onto the thinnest string of promises ever known to naked eyes. Yet their eyes were blinded by hands of what they called 'affection'. The hands that clawed into their once gleaming eyes. Pulling them out in the name of Love. Humans can be the brainy ones, or rather, the pitiful ones.
I was standing at a beach that I made up in my mind. There were many papers laying on the white pristine sand, joined by the glass shards. Each paper had its own words. My hand reached for one—a light interrupted me. It cut off my one and only access to my past. As if letting me know that I shouldn't mourn upon what had passed.
Yet I couldn't forget any second from those moments where I actually lived. Not just existing. To live, then I must feel. It meant, I should suffer as well. But how foolish of me, to choose the way I die for nostalgia.
Human lives with the constant feeling of pain inside of their hearts. Their hearts are sensitive it makes living difficult. To be carefully loved so that we won't be accidentally broken by a slight touch, truly a privilege. To be shaped by the things they called love would be a pleasure, knowing to live.
Humans are delicate, but their feelings shaped them. Their hearts are enveloped by their frail bones. So that it won't scar easily. The pain from the open wounds.
But mortals were obsessed with torturing their own selves because of the word 'love'. That's just humans. Nostalgia will be the death of them. Each piece of past will go through their heads. Humans are sailors, and the sea is their memories.
Nothing can capture the right way humans see something through their own eyes. Fireworks. Strolling around with their kimds. Laughing till they forget what's wrong. Humans had their own youths where the spring felt so blue. Light blue like the sky. A tide could wrap its claws around their hand, dragging them down to the seabed, and their minds would play trick to show them their best 7 minutes of lives. Passing their minds as their souls were pulled out, slowly but surely.
When the night was full of terrors from their memory, tears would fill their gazes. The scariest thing is that—time will always pass no matter what. So humans live for feelings. Love and suffer. Yet they need to find the meaning of their lives. What could possibly happen when they let go of their nagging minds?
Humans are stubborn, I am a human, so I am as well stubborn. I can't let the fragment of my past slip through my fingers. I need to hold on tight. No matter how much it's hurting me. I needed to find the meaning in my life, and memory is the reason I was made. I am a human. I am made to feel. Joy, sorrow, or resentment. Nostalgia will be the death of me. But it's fine, as long as I'll die with 7 minutes of the happiest flakes of my life buried next to my rotting corse. At least the flowers in the spring will be the scent of my demise. So I closed my eyes—
The ocean was so blue. The sky was infinitely blue. And I saw the three years of my blue youth, flashing through my ceasing mind.
