finite

the hands of the clock meet every minute, every hour.

some say it is the meeting between friends, torn apart by different paths who meet at intersections. the paths wind through a forest, and each time they get farther from each other, circumstances bring them back. they are forever fated to be together at one moment and apart the next.

others say it is the meeting between enemies. the inevitable meeting is the confrontation. the ticks is the battle drums, signalling the final confrontation. and the universe repeats itself, over and over again. until blood is spilled every minute, every hour, and pain blooms every minute, every hour.

i say it is the meeting between life and death. when the boundaries between the two worlds becomes so thin that we catch a glimpse. we don’t know what we catch a glimpse of. we don’t know what the other side holds. but life and death meets when the hands of the clock meets. as we go on living, someone on the other side releases their breath.

and their breath becomes air*.

the young hold pompous attitudes towards death. the fearlessness of the ignorant, wise men say. i say nothing but an afterlife when i think of death. my mind, untouched by the horrors of the world, is a gurgling infant, fascinated with different possibilities.

but the man suffering from stage iv cancer looks at death and sees the cruel ending to his life for which he lived for. he worked for the life that he had. and now, because his cells refuse to behave, this hard work will be blown out.

a candle is blown out in the dark.

and the light is extinguished.

then what is life? we expect to see results at the end of our hard work. but life… life is the opposite. there are no results at the end of life. there is only the inevitable last breath. the inevitable closing of the eyes. we run our entire life towards the finish line. instead of receiving gold, we receive…

an endless sleep.

perhaps death comes as a welcome blessing to those drowning from pain. or death is the enemy, the reaper with no remorse. the psychopath who takes and takes and never gives.

we look and look for an answer to life. to the question of life. what is life? but is that the true question of life? is the purpose of us living to discover what our purpose?

but isn’t that cruel? to look for the purpose of life only to, when finding the answer, to find our life extinguished. life is our first and only change. we can’t be perfect because we have nothing to compare our mistakes to. so we bumble along, looking for our purpose.

the hands of the clock grow further apart.

we grow older. we live. we laugh. we hope. we cry. we shout. we rage. we work and work and work and work. we look. for what, we don’t know. but we look. we grieve.

the hands of the clock are the farthest from each other they will ever be.

we meet our loves. we begin to enjoy life. our work dies down. we see the colors in nature. we see the tears on the pages of books printed. we see beauty in pain and pain in beauty. we see the contradictions of life. and we breathe in admiration of breathing. oxygen, carbon dioxide, air.

the hands of the clock grow closer.

our eyesight dims. grandchildren perhaps? or perhaps some are still lost, searching and searching. but we are never truly satisfied. none of us. human greed and personality keep us going. we look and look for something we will never find.

the hands of the clock touch.

the light is extinguished.

we are plunged in darkness.

*taken from When Breath Becomes Air

inspired by When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi and The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera.

highly recommend both books.

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