Upon the precipice of death, rests life. Fragile, it is still all we know until we know no more. Easy enough, it can return to the oblivion from whence we know not how or why we arrived. A few tears, perhaps, enough to change it all.

Accumulated grief can make one wearisome, not to mention the pervasive abundance of doom stimuli.

Life is hard. And if anyone informs you otherwise, well, they are ignorant, an idiot, or some ignominious liar.

Life is hard. And the thoughtfulness don’t always help. Makes it seem worse, on plenty of occasions. If enough of your neurons are firing, the gaping quandaries of why can appear inescapable- as it has been for millennia and will likely continue for many millennia more. And the further one stumbles down the wonders of why, answers can often become sparse or appearing unattainable. Reaching out into the nothing while leaking some something unintended along the way. Give of yourself, even in benevolence, and it may feel like there is nothing remaining for that self that gave all that giving. And replenishment can often seem an abstract, especially in times such as these.

And whether we ever get any closer to the solution of why’s equation, the ache stays, often with plenty of force to pull away or apart. Might be the business of desire is always doomed in that way. Unmitigated want weens us away from the necessities for stability, so the void seems only to grow, no matter what fuel we feed its adversaries. Never enough, or never quite right- that fight to find the whys instilled by the irresistible and infuriating itch to understand.

But there might be nothing new in anything I’ve written. Or said. Regurgitated tropes over and over again. Perhaps purpose is just a painted shadow upon the cave. Enough tragedy might shake reason from even the most resolute. And even if only temporarily, the cause can be devastating to lengths of catastrophe. One faulter, unfortunately, can be enough to fall, forever.

Yet, while knowing all of that grim beginning holds its own portions of truth, that does not mean I claim it as absolute. For even the abyss yields on occasion, or else this whole life endeavor would have never gotten off the ground to begin with. And this is no narrative of naivety I weave. As aforementioned a few dozen words ago- life is hard. Riddled with regret and loss, after loss, and loss. Stories cut short for this reason or that chaos, even if desired or tired otherwise. And sure, we might be physically nothing more than the electricity of some fickle mass of subatomic particles- but whenever, whatever this collection of atoms and such gets to being, it ceases to be setting or prop and becomes character. And it is the characters that make existence cared for and caring.

Failure, though, ever around many a corner. Of which, there are plenty of my own both ancient and modern. The weight of powerlessness, the echoes of guilt- all this and more is guaranteed with this existence subscription. Yet, let us stray away from the dismay, if I might. For all the horrors the average human is hired to endure, that is not the exclusive content of this particular sentience programming. Even if for only a few moments ever fleeting- life can be good.

I desire to never fail again, knowing that I will. But hearts don’t break because they have no concept of benevolence and beauty. It is when it is know that good is a portion of reality that the perception on the rest of it can grow so trying.

And it is never the bad actors that we miss in this, whatever necessity their parts might play. It is the good, the great, the inspired performances of personal truth upon this stage of a world that sway our hearts toward melancholy when they exit this proscenium. It is the ones we wish were still here that we miss. Sometimes, for the rest of our remaining lifetimes.

So do their memory a favor, those dearly departed and keep fighting. Keep being, as best as any moment might muster. No easy task, but an important one. For while we hope for that those that are gone a peace might be found, it sure would be nice if we could see, if we could be with them again.

We all get lost. Maybe we are born that way, only to die the same. But even when lost, you need not always be alone. Could be that there might appear nowhere else to go, nor nothing else to do to stop the pain or make the looming shadows dissipate. But there is always something, even if miniscule or microscopic. There might even be hands unnoticed to help hoist a soul up into some better light.

Life is hard. Impossible in appearance, at times. But it can be good. And it most certainly holds some bountiful beauty. Even if it cannot be seen from where we are today, I hope we can try again for a few tomorrows more.