˖⋆࿐໋

you’re beyond me in so many ways, i mean,

look at the way your hair curls,

and, wow, look at this perfect candid photo somebody took of you laughing!

your perfect, beautiful, angelic, light is so fucking blinding.

YOU SICKEN ME.

tell me how to be like you,

show me,

show me how your teeth get so white,

let me grab your face and examine your scalp, trust me,

let me pluck your hairs so i can sharpen them into needles,

needles that i can stab my own body with

and let the blood run down my face —

maybe then i could have your rosy cheeks.

but what does a dirty blood soaked zombie bitch have,

compared to the divine venus de milo, in all her glory?

nothing. you know that.

THEY ALL KNOW.

look at her; so fucking pathetic.

tell her what to do and she’ll bend over backward

like the little pathetic bitch she is.

TELL ME WHO I AM.

tell me how to tilt my head and

pop my tits and

purse my lips and

scrunch my nose and

do my eyeliner and

…

TELL ME HOW.

look me in my eyes,

STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME!!!!

and tell me what you see.

DO NOT LOOK TOO DEEP.

come too close and you might see

DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE.

THERE ARE PARTS OF ME YOU CANNOT SEE.

THERE ARE PARTS OF ME I CANNOT SEE.

THESE ARE PARTS OF ME I AM NOT BRAVE ENOUGH TO EXPLORE.

GIRL, baby, can i call you baby?

you know you’re my muse.

you live in my sketchbook and in the margins of my textbooks,

your complexion is etched into my bones,

and my hatred for you bleeds into my tissue and it spreads like a disease,

rotting my flesh

until you infect everything i do.

what would GIRL do?

what would GIRL say?

what would GIRL breathe?

and, god, baby, how i hate you.

LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE MADE OF ME.

i am lost.

i am nobody without your gaze,

your touch,

your laugh.

say my name again,

i’m so fucking close.

come over and kiss me,

reach your tongue into my mouth until you swallow me whole.

THIS IS THE ONLY WAY.

take my face into your palms,

until there is no beginning or end.

WE CAN BE ONE.

keep going, keep touching,

I NEED THIS.

BITE DOWN ON ME,

YOU’RE THE BLOOD IN MY GUMS,

MY TEARS MEAN IT’S WORKING.

MAKE ME BE THE SAME.

WE CAN BE THE SAME.

I CAN BE GIRL.

˖⋆࿐໋

don’t tell me i’m beautiful,

don’t look at me.

you must be blind,

i envy you.

how can you not see:

my protruding ribs,

my bony elbows,

my hip bones, ripping through my skin?

how do you expect me to believe you?

when all is bare,

i am just bones.

still, you say i’m beautiful.

i want to believe you so badly,

yet my body shows me otherwise.

you are a liar.

i want to be beautiful, like you promise me to be.

i want to belong in my body.

but look at me.

skin & bones & flesh & sickness.

one day i will be like the other girls,

and i’ll be more than a skeleton,

i’ll be beautiful.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓏲ּ𝄢໒꒱ ‧₊˚

bruised veins

will you love me?

i crave your touch, your attention, your voice, your heart, your

love.

limerence? maybe?

please, will, i have dug my claws into my chest and ripped my bloody heart out of my body,

eagerly, for you.

you have left, you have hurt, i forgive you no i don’t.

time will heal these wounds, i’m sure.

otherwise, i’d be here forever, desperate, pitiful. it doesn’t sound too bad.

“no!” is what i reprimand myself with. she’s a fool.

please, anyone, love me. shut up.

ever since i was a little girl,

i’d look to the sky and pray.

i’d plead for someone like that,

who would hold me and care for me so intimately.

but in my reflection, i’d see a horrible,

unloveable,

vile,

creature.

love would just not be in the cards for me.

and my eyes would swell with tear.

i was constantly giving, giving, giving —

my arteries rich with love.

i have met some of the kindest, most caring people in the world. my friends.

but i had a deep, extreme, desire for more.

something they couldn’t give me. it wouldn’t cut it.

instead, i slice my arms and wrists in search of love,

only to find shriveled veins,

battered and bruised.

it comes around eventually.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓏲ּ𝄢໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

grassy knees & melted popsicles

it’s 7pm on a summer evening,

the sun’s slow descent in the west,

still paints the sky golden.

squeals & giggles fill the air,

as the three kids next door ring the doorbell,

and ask me to play.

it’s been so long, i tell them i forgot how.

how ridiculous!

one simply cannot “forget” how to play,

how to have fun!

and so i chase them,

in the driveway,

around the house,

to the backyard,

and back around again.

freeze!

got you!

unfreeze!

one’s in her diaper,

one’s in his pajama pants, his back sunburnt,

and the eldest in her mermaid bathing suit.

all of them bathed in a constellation of bug bites on their arms and legs,

with their grass stained knees.

we play,

and we chase,

until it turns to dusk,

and we collapse.

and it is then,

that i look over at them,

sprawled out in the grass next to me, laughing,

and i realize the only difference between them and me in that moment

is our age.

i, too, have been bitten by the mosquitoes,

having been tumbling in the dirt and grass,

with my mouth stained by sticky sweet popsicles.

and i tell them, “thank you,”

but they stare at me.

and i can only hope that they will keep their grassy knees forever.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

candles on the cake

my birthday, the twenty-fifth of july,

but every year seems shorter than the last.

and the candles’ flames flicker in my eyes,

my youth haunts me, but the past is the past.

even now, i am still the same outcast —

that little girl still lives inside of me.

“did you ever become pretty?” she asked.

i tell her to not chase after beauty,

such a fruitless endeavor — she will see.

getting older each year becomes dreadful,

but at least i still have the same old me.

and i’ll never lose her — how wonderful.

the girl i’ve always been will grow and grow,

don’t they say you grow through what you go through?

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

i wish you would

take my hand,

pull me into an endless dance,

and pull me in close, close, closer

boy, you know you’ve always had me in your trance.

unwind me,

unravel me —

i love you completely,

pathetically.

and maybe it’s foolish,

that i’m still where you left me,

but the heart wants what it wants.

and i’m not sure if i’ll ever be set free.

choose me,

hold me —

i love you completely,

selfishly.

open your eyes, boy,

i’ve been here, all these years.

and i can still see it now —

his & hers.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

the divinity in solitude

how intimate it is, to see a waning gibbous in an empty sky, from the comfort of my bedroom. where all else is quiet and dark, interrupted by the warm glow of my bedside lamp. and it feels like you’re the only person in the world. selfish.

it is times like these, where you seem both bigger and smaller than life itself. whose life? who knows.

it’s almost religious. sacred. you cannot escape yourself when you are alone. what does that mean to you? do you feel trapped? relieved? either way, the night sky does something to us all — it brings out confessions, secrets, and truths.

and, really, there are millions, billions, of others looking up at the moon thinking the same. dancing, smoking, writing, admiring, crying — they’re doing it all. it’s romantic, really. it’s not a unique human experience, but it is one of the most beautiful. one of the most humane. people being people. the human race will look to the moon for guidance in moments of solitude for countless years to come. the moon has seen so many of us, our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and our ancestors.

but i close the blinds and i climb back into my bed. it is dizzying to think about every human being that has ever looked at the moon the same way. but i am filled with intense gratitude for humanity, for the moon, and for my life. and there is power to harvest when you are alone in your bedroom, alone with the moon, that is.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

for the girl i’ve always been, i love you.

There would be times of doubt, in which I’d question if there the diver would ever come to my rescue after all, and I would drag the heavy rocks out of my clothes with all of my strength until there was nothing holding me back between the seafloor and the warm sun of freedom. Still, I lay there in my own will. Just a little more waiting, part of me pleaded. He’ll come for us.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. I was the girl smiling, rotting away at the ocean floor. I didn’t mind it. He’ll come one day.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Sometimes I think about me and him and what I’d do if I was given the chance to go back to the first day we met. As an extreme creature of habit, I am tempted to say that I wouldn’t change a thing because every experience I’ve ever lived through has made this present-day version of myself, whom I love. But there’s a smaller, more selfish version of me that says I’d be less awkward, more forward, I would have tried to be prettier, I’d know when to make a stupid joke and when not to, I wouldn’t make him mad — I’d be better. Because who knows where I would be today? Who knows what our relationship would look like?

He always had a huge place in my life, whether we were friends or more than. We do not talk much anymore, or rather he doesn’t talk to me much. And I know, that’s how life goes — people come and go — but I’ve never been good with that. And I’m the worst about it when it comes to him.

I can’t let go. I sink my nails into the fake memories I’ve created of us and the version of him that lives exclusively in my mind until the fantasies bleed black. None of it is real. He’s not the guy I dance around with in the kitchen, he’s not the guy who writes me beautiful letters, he’s not the guy who buys me flowers, his gifts are not thoughtful, and he is most likely not the guy I spend the rest of my life with. He is the guy that talks about his ex-girlfriend on a date and ghosts you the next day, never follows through on plans, doesn’t reach out, leaves without saying bye, doesn’t wish you happy birthday, but he is the guy that throws in a casual “love you” every time he talks to you.

And I look back on some of my memories with him:

Always being paired up for projects by our teachers that wanted us to date

Trying to color match my school uniform to his

Both of us being told by our parents how great our wedding would be

When somebody would ask me for my “type” — I didn’t have one, so I’d describe him instead

All three times I’ve told him I had feelings for him throughout elementary and middle school

Studying his face, decoding which features came from which of his parents

The first time he ended a phone call with saying “I love you”

When he took my hand for the first time at our favorite amusement park

Staying up until midnight to tell him “Happy Birthday”

The various letters I had written for him

The photos he’d send of his little cousins when he went on family trips

My family asking about him nonstop, some even to this day

Whatever we had was juvenile, sweet, and awkward but it was ours. Once he was no longer a part of my daily schedule and we went our separate ways, I found myself re-reading the last yearbook message he ever wrote me. It was sweet and it made me cry every time. We didn’t stand a chance. I expected for us to fall out of touch, but I knew we’d find our way back. I waited.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

I’ve been told my opinions on him are bipolar. I love him. I want him back so badly I’m going to vomit. I’m going to text him. I’m going to write about him until the ink from my pen floods the pages of my journal with the same dark brown as his eyes. But he never texts me. Why do I always text him first? We’re supposed to be friends, not strangers. Never strangers. He says he’d love to see me but he never texts me. Why? Why does he do that? I’m going to cry. I hope he sees me and wants me so badly but he can never have this again. Because I hate him! I am sorry for my friends who have to hear this from me constantly, but I am exhausted too.

My heart instinctively drops and beats a little faster when I see him. There are butterflies in my stomach and suddenly I have forgotten how to say every word in the English language but he’s just an old friend of mine.

I still check his Instagram profile for his reposts and any other signs of life. I also check an astrology app I downloaded after I saw him post about it on his Instagram story, which we are friends on, and I check our shared horoscope almost every day.

My love (?) for him was a huge part of who I was, but I have known for a while now that the same devotion and intensity were not returned. I am not ashamed nor embarrassed because what a beautiful and pure thing, to be consumed in something like that. I could call whatever I had for him love and you’d just have to take my word for it because of love’s subjectivity. In this deep love I had for him, I did grow probably unhealthily attached but I got used to it.

If you were to ask me if I still had feelings for him today, I’d say I love him. And a part of me always will. But I know he is not the romanticized version I dream about. I am not a second option he can always come back for. I am done waiting for him — I plan on living my life (and continuing to come to his plays) and if he came to me one day and asked for a do-over, I would seriously consider it. You can’t hate me for the truth.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Is Love an Emotion?

First, we must try our best to define love, a task which will be proven to be increasingly difficult because of its complexity and the meaning it bears to each person. If I were to ask you to list emotions, any emotions, just off the top of your head, it is incredibly likely you would mention “love.” In society, love has been commonly understood and classified as an emotion in itself, but many psychologists have stepped forward to argue that love does not perform neurologically like a typical emotion. An emotion is fundamentally defined as being an “event-focused process,” meaning it includes subjective experiences, physiological responses, and behavioral responses.

The subjective experience, also referred to as the stimulus, is the first stage in experiencing an emotion. The subjective experience can vary widely, and is essentially any event that can invoke emotion, but the emotional response varies by person to person. For example, let’s say there is a teal vase for sale at an antique shop. Person A’s favorite color is teal so they might see the vase and be delighted, whereas Person B strongly dislikes the color teal, so they could experience disgust at the sight of the vase (the sight of the teal vase being the subjective experience).

The physiological response is controlled by our autonomic nervous system, which is in charge of our involuntary body reactions (breathing, sweating, etc.) and our fight-or-flight response. Let’s say you are walking home late at night and you feel like you’re being watched, you might start walking faster, your heart beat would accelerate, maybe you’d start sweating, and your breathing would become more rapid. All of those bodily reactions would be the physiological response.

The behavioral response is the physical expression of the emotion, whether that be a smile, furrowing of the brows, a laugh, a sigh, etc. In 1972, Dr. Paul Ekman published a list of six basic emotions: happiness, sadness, anger, disgust, fear, and surprise, and their corresponding facial expressions he proved to be innate and universally recognized across cultures, embedded in our biology.

Ekman’s studies on emotions throughout the 1960s and 1990s guided him to the conclusion that love is not an emotion but an enduring attachment or state. He writes of the three characteristics of an emotion in Emotions Revealed. According to Ekman, emotions are fleeting and often only last for up to a few minutes, while love is a continuous state that encompasses a wide range of fleeting emotions. A parent can love their child but still become frustrated when their child lies and can feel sad for their child when they get last place in the science fair, and so on. Additionally, unlike his established basic emotions that he found to have universal facial features, love did not have a universal expression.

Instead, love is used an umbrella term and was separated by John Alan Lee in his 1973 publication of The Color Wheel Theory of Love into six different types of romantic love in accordance to the primary and secondary colors: eros (intense & passionate romantic love), storge (love with a familial stability), ludus (playful, uncommitted love), mania (obsessive, dependent love), pragma (logical & enduring love), and agape (all-giving, selfless, & unconditional love).

The universal six types of love grew to eight in the early 21st century, initiated by early pop psychology books that critiqued Lee’s model for focusing exclusively on romantic love. Rooted from the Greek word for ‘friendship,’ philia (platonic love) was a quick addition. In the mid-2010s, the internet saw an extreme rise in self-care, the importance of boundaries, and overall caring for one’s own mind and body. As the then seven types of love lacked any mention of a form of internal love, philautia (self-love - is possible to be healthy, self-compassion, or unhealthy, selfishness) was added, completing what we know now to be the eight different types of love. That is not to say that this list is not ever-growing, as humans will continue to evolve and our understanding of certain aspects of our emotions, etc. will grow alongside us.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

What Does It Mean to Love?

It has been established that there are eight different specific types of love but more broadly, to love is traditionally defined as type of intense and deep affection and is often characterized by intimacy, commitment, care, passion, and/or trust. As proven by Ekman’s studies, there is no universal facial expression or even experience that can properly encompass the complexity of love. Love is completely unique to each person, regardless of their culture, race, gender, age, and background. Ask anyone to define what love is to them and you will get an extreme variety of answers, and each answer reveals their own personal values and desires when it comes to life, romantic attraction, and their relationships. To illustrate this, here are several answers taken from redditors online when asked, “What exactly does love mean to you?”

These answers give us a brief glimpse into each person’s mind and way of thinking, whether that be a more romantic way of viewing life or one more systematic. Take a moment here and think to yourself what love means to you, perhaps romantically or in all relationships or aspects. What exactly does love mean to you, reader?

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Why is Love Embarrassing?

Because of love’s tendency to be intense, it demands a deep level of vulnerability, especially in cases of unrequited love or being attracted to somebody who may or may not feel the same way. Even finding love to be something cringeworthy is an indicator of a possible defense mechanism put in place internally to protect you from having to be vulnerable. Love, especially romantic love, requires you to open yourself up to another person. It requires you to be your truest self and it forces you to take risks. Love is equally thrilling and terrifying, beautiful and ugly, but above all — it is a gift.

There is nothing embarrassing about love. Yet, I would react to discussions of love with disgust until it was just me, alone, in my dark bedroom where I would be free to dream up a fantasy in which I would be chosen and loved and cherished. Love is cheesy, cringey, and incredibly cliché. But love is also giggly, tender, and sweet.

It is not embarrassing to show you care. Text that person, buy your friends flowers, show up to your loved ones’ weddings, band gigs, and recitals. Send a letter, buy a coffee, reach out. Life is far too short to keep your feelings to yourself. Everyone you love, let them know. Tell them, scream it, say it over and over again! Reassure them you’re there, that you care, and that you’re in their corner. Even if it’s an old friend or someone you don’t talk to much anymore. You have nothing to lose when you are authentic to yourself. Embrace love, in all of its complexity, in every aspect of your life. Love is everywhere.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

I am not sure when my little brain let the tide in that led me to loathe myself, but if I had to pinpoint it I’d say around fifth grade. Being ten years old was definitely a rough year for me which is strange because I was ten? Why was I so sad? Like, I had literally just hit double digits, chill out. I was confused and was looking for who I was, and this very clearly was reflected in my style, my personality, the books I read, etc. I had so many questions about myself. I genuinely cannot imagine what it was like to be friends with me in fifth grade because one thing I do remember is I would ruthlessly chase down my friends or just anyone who made me upset and I would aggressively kick at their shins, sometimes until they started crying. Looking back, I didn’t really have any “true” friends in fifth grade. I was so different from the rest of the girls in my class but we were all had vaginas, so we were all friends by default. The closest thing I had to a support system would’ve been my online friends, which was not fantastic because it was your stereotypical online friend group… Think of the parodies people make now about Discord servers, it was not as bad but it was pretty close. And I was basically mute when I was around my step-sisters as my mom and I began spending more and more time with them — I was extremely quiet and shy and they were all significantly older than me, it felt more like they were just my babysitters rather than family, and I just didn’t feel right intruding on their already we-have-been-sisters-since-birth bond. I was alone, I kept to myself, and just was constantly observing (when I wasn’t being a little fucking menace).

꧁༺✧༻꧂

What I do remember, from being ten years old, though, is looking at all of the girls in my class and deciding that they were all prettier than me. Especially this one girl, we will call her L.V., because those are her initials. I thought L.V. was one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen, I didn’t know whether I wanted to be her or date her. I thought she had a perfect life, perfect eyes, perfect curly hair, and I was so envious of her. It was around this time when my friends started dating, in that incredibly juvenile way preteens do. I am not sure what led me to this conclusion, but naturally I decided that I was hideous looking. I carried this fact with me throughout middle school.

In sixth grade, my self-esteem was at an all-time low. I secretly hated myself and adopted this “fake it till you make it” mindset, which involved me telling people, “No I am actually really good looking, my mirror just doesn’t understand,” and, “You know what, I actually look really nice. Don’t you agree, ________?” Just begging for attention and compliment fishing for literally any kind of validation. Cool, cool, cool… But when it would come time for me to be in my bedroom, alone, late at night, I would cry and cry and cry. I would pray to whatever god was out there and I would ask to be as pretty as the rest of the girls in my grade every single night. I was desperate to crawl into the skin of another girl, one prettier, one more popular, and live there forever.

I wanted to change everything about myself so badly, and that only worsened when I found this video on Youtube claiming to give you your desired body, hair color, eye color, grades, whatever you wanted — all you had to do was listen to it as you slept, and you’d wake up and follow the “law of attraction,” and all of a the subliminal affirmations would let my nose be straight, my eyes greener, and me be pretty. And I was committed to that shit, but my nose never straightened out, my eyes stayed the same color, and I looked the exact same.

It wasn’t long until I found the shifting community, in which people would claim they transferred their conscious mind to an alternate reality of their choice, leaving behind their subconscious in the real world. I was so desperate to escape my own mind that I embraced this community with open arms. I was eager to do anything it took to get me to Hogwarts (was heavy into HP at the time). Not only could I go anywhere I desired, but I could plan out my life there. How I looked, my age, my relationships, even my closet. Obviously, I made a version of me so far from myself, but it was cool and that’s what it took to be pretty.

And none of this fucking worked! I was exhausted because now, I have no choice but to stay in this pathetic, ugly life of mine. In sixth grade, I hated myself so deeply, so horribly that I wanted to die. I wanted someone to notice, to ask me if I was okay, to let me talk about this with them but I never did. I never told anyone about this. I was too afraid to cause any actual pain, so I settled with taking scissors and safety pins and slicing my thighs and wrists and arms. I was doing this shit in school too, I’d take a pair of scissors and drag it across my wrists a few times and I’d hold up my scarped arms to my friends and I’d say, “Look, I’m a tiger!” But I was too afraid. I was afraid of hurting myself, of an adult finding out so I stopped. I wanted to die so badly, yet I couldn’t even do anything about it because I was too scared, which only frustrated me more. I was even more stuck in my ugly life!

The first time I felt actually pretty was in eighth grade. Sure, I still thought my friends to be prettier than me but for the first time ever I wasn’t super fucking ugly! But I still couldn’t help but constantly compare myself to Girl 1 and Girl 2, they were both kind of bitches when they were together but they were both very pretty and best friends. I was jealous because a.) they were prettier than me - boys our age stopped them in public to ask for their numbers and they were showered with compliments by everyone - and b.) I was a weird kind of floater friend that connected a lot of people, but those two were best friends and there was no doubt about that, they were each other’s person and that was something special I didn’t really have.

꧁༺✧༻꧂

I am sure how or when I was able to stop loathing every part of myself, but I know it wasn’t all at once. Over the course of a few years, it felt like I was gaining power over myself. Also, it helped that I was discovering more concretely my passions, my personality, and identity. The voice in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough, that told me I was ugly, that I didn’t deserve to be alive, that I was a terrible daughter just got quieter and quieter until it felt like I killed her. I know now that that voice doesn’t define me. I still give into feelings of envy and jealousy, but I am no longer at that place where I let it consume me. I know that somebody’s wins are not my losses, even if it feels like that sometimes. I have more support now, as well. Better, closer friends, and I am close to my sisters.

I still can’t go without makeup if I want to feel pretty, but it’s part of accepting me and who I am and that includes how I look. And I am thankful to be born, to be here, writing this, and I am thankful for this life as myself. I have grown in so many ways from my ten-year old self and I will continue to bloom, and I am excited. I am no longer mean to myself, because I know she doesn’t deserve it. She’s trying. I’m trying.

꧁༺✧༻꧂

⋆.˚༄

The Religious Aspect

It is nearly impossible to touch on religion with a philosophy like this one, but I would like to start that I most identify with Atheism, defined as the lack of belief in the existence of a god or any gods. That being said, I certainly do not have anything against those who do believe in any sort of a higher power — I enjoy learning about others’ beliefs and I grew up in a Christian household. For me, it has just been something ever since I was a little girl. Whenever I would go to church with my family - and still when I go to this day - I would get a gut feeling in which I would just know and feel so incredibly disconnected from everyone else around me, with their hands over their hearts and in the air singing gospel songs. And I would go home to think about God being a guy who lives in the sky and I would just be very skeptical because how does one even live in the sky, above the clouds? That’s space. Obviously, I would like to mention I know now that that’s not an accurate depiction of God but that it what I thought about when I was child and even now as I have explored what religion means to me more, I still agree with her that there might not be any god out there at all.

⋆.˚༄

Fatalism

Fatalism is the belief that all events, the choices we make, the predicaments we find ourselves in, and ultimately our ends are all predetermined, making them inevitable. “Everything happens for a reason,” and “If it’s meant to be it’ll be,” are common indicators that someone might believe in fate as both tend to imply there is a “plan.” Both of these phrases, combined with the idea of fate, provide reassurance to many. Looking at the infinite size of our universe and beyond and comparing that with our everyday dilemmas can invoke a sense of helplessness, inferiority, or existentialism because, really, it puts our lives into perspective and begs the question: Does any of this truly matter? The answer to this question is extremely personal and unique to each person and my answer is mainly no. There is no inherent meaning to any of this. Instead, I argue that life is something of a game full of choices and each one we make builds off of the one before, basically until we die. The only predetermined fate we have is death. And if I was some random white guy I would add, “and taxes!”

If there is no meaning to any of this, then why should any of us bother living? To backtrack, I do believe none of us are born with a meaning. Why are we born? Well, because two people had sex. And we are all born as blank slates. We live, we grow, we learn what we like and what we don’t and our passions. It is up to us as individuals to find our own meanings. To many, the meaning of life is to “be happy.” But what does being happy mean? Again, something highly personal to each person, as everyone has different goals, ideas of being content, etc. People will continue to rack their brains and spiral discussing and analyzing the meaning of life, searching for the reason of their existence. And if I could say anything to someone like that is this, “This is your life. Not anyone else’s. What do you like to do? What brings you joy? Do that to fullest, whatever that may be. You are young, you are able-minded, the power is in your hands. Do not let yourself lay on your deathbed wishing you had done a single thing differently.”

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How Do I Live Like This?

So far, I have claimed that there is no creator and no inherent meaning to life, isn’t that a little depressing? Well no, not necessarily because truth be told, there is beauty everywhere in this Earth. Both in nature but in humanity, because, yes, there is beauty in humanity. Look for it. Talk to strangers, take the long way home, observe, observe, observe. Look at the way the sun reflects onto the water, look at the way the lovers laugh, looking into each others eyes, admire the way the sunlight comes through the tree leaves, hear the children laugh! There are plenty of reasons to hate the world, but look for the small things. Do things afraid, do them alone, or with loved ones, do it, do it, do it!!! Make memories, make your life worth living, make stories for you look back on, and make your future self proud. Do not be embarrassed. There is nothing embarrassing about being alive, about being in love, about being upset.

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sorry that my article was so short!! comment down below your thoughts on this & your religion — i’m curious!! thank you so much for reading ㅤꨄ︎

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