We’re Strange

There are no guarantees in death, except the end of life. So don’t plan on achieving peace, comfort, closure or anything else, because none of it is a given. However, life holds certainty, even though we don’t always interpret its certainty correctly. But the natural order that is established, and the laws of cause and effect that apply, will always apply, every single time. And the only thing we can control in all of this is how we respond to what we encounter along the way. 

We can’t cause anyone else to act a certain way or feel a certain feeling any more than we are able to influence them. And we can’t influence them unless they deem us significant in the context of their lives. But just like how we apportion such significance to those that we choose or want to be significant in our lives, the same applies in reverse, but yet we fail to realise this simple truth, which is why we constantly strive to acquire the heart of some that may only have a fleeting affection for us, but in fact holds us as insignificant in the bigger scheme of their lives. 

We erroneously believe that we get what we deserve. We don’t. We never will. This world is created for respite, not justice. It is created as an opportunity for us to perfect our own humanity, not to impose our sense of humanity onto others. We may polarise towards like-minded beings and in that be further deluded into believing that what we’re surrounded with is in fact a reflection of the world that is beyond our reach. It’s not. Our world is what we make of it. Our perceptions and expectations are products of our fears and aspirations, rarely with a healthy dose of reality. 

We’re too afraid to be alone, that’s why we recoil at the thought of being different. Even in our differences we seek affirmation. Even when we don’t expect acceptance or adoption, we need to be acknowledged to be of some value in our being different. But when that is withheld, we assume that we’re defective and therefore inconsequential and insignificant, when in fact we quite possibly may have achieved what we’ve been striving for and dreaming about all our lives. We’re unique. But we only want to be unique if we’re unique like everyone else. 

And then we die, hardly having lived at all, but affirmed in our mediocrity, and celebrated in our conformance, but rarely appreciated for our individuality. But we lack an appreciation of our self, and are still surprised at not being appreciated by others. We’re a strange bunch, aren’t we?



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