We all must die. This is a certainty of life, its natural accompaniment. I would not be able to write in this moment if I were to escape death, for I would not be alive in the first place. And none us asked to live. There was no point at which we consciously asked to be brought into this world, we just were, thanks to a mix of physical and emotional attraction, the right place and the right time and a brilliant symphony of genetic expression (one at which I marvel on a regular basis). None of us asked to live and therefore none of us asked to die, however we are all burdened (or liberated, depending on your point of view) with the knowledge that one day our bodies will cease to function and we will cease to exist except on the tongues of the ones who loved us. It almost certainly inevitable that we will all become lost within the clouds of time before too long.
So what is the point of living? What are we hoping to accomplish? What is the meaning and purpose of a life that will be extinguished so soon on the scale of the universe? I look at the darkness of the human race around me and think of the beauty of alpine meadows from which my body was constructed and I ask myself, why?
With more scenes from the alpine meadows, the passionate hug of my other and the firm embrace of my father. I think of trees weighed down by fresh and heavy snow amongst the muted silence. I think of flowers, fields of them, chandeliers hanging from ceilings covered in them. I think of the rustle of wind in the leaves on a warm summer’s day. I think of awakening to that sound next to the naked body of a cherished lover. I think of the rush of knowing I have walked away from an abusive lover. I think of love, in all its ubiquitous shapes, forms, sizes. I think of sunsets and sunrises, waves against glittering sand. I think of the first sip of coffee, the first taste of chocolate, the first cool of ice-cream on my tongue. I think of cherry tomatoes, breaking under the force of my teeth. I think of lazy mornings and active evenings; active mornings and lazy evenings. I think of the adrenaline of a heavy squat or the finish of a half-marathon. I think of the celebration of a goal. I think of reaching the summit of a hike and forcing myself to jump into water from a cliff because I only live once. I think of the one woman it was impossible to say goodbye to on a couch at the end of a Canadian summer. Love, again, in all its ubiquitous shapes, forms, sizes. I think of this, this catharsis of pen to paper that makes me realize I may only live once, but that I have the power to carve my perception to make sure that this one life belongs to no-one but me and those I choose to include in it. It makes me realize the magnitude of moments marring my memory making me merry for at this very moment, I am alive and truly nothing else exists but this, here and now, and so when you ask me what the point is to living, what is the purpose of living, I will answer you simply, a big smile across my face, “why, for love, of course.”
