On Trying

Dear God, Lord, myself- whatever is above- why must I try? Why must there always be three choices: to give up, to never live at all, and to try? There is no life in giving up. To give up means that whatever has been has gone. But many never take this extreme. Most never recognize what was to begin with, for this takes acceptance and humility.

But what about those who do? What about those who recognize the odds, the insensibility, the sheer dumbfuckery of it all, and choose to live anyways? What about those who dared to be perceived, liked, after days, months, years, of thinking that that didn’t deserve to do so? What about those who still continue to open their eyes, even when they have never existed within their own forms? What about those who exist in the same reality, in a new day, and dare to believe that things will change? What about them? What about me?

Right now, I have the answers to none of these questions. I wish I did. I accept the fact that some of them I will never be able to answer, and I will never take anyone else’s standpoint on the matter. I will just keep trying. For that is what I must do. For that is the only thing to do. For that is the only hope I have in creating a reality by which I can be happy in; be myself in.

I resent the fact that I care so much. It would be so much easier to never care, never be a human at all. But what is beauty without struggle, perseverance? What is a life without the scars of unrequited love, failed tests that you studied days for, and friendships you could never quite make happen? What other artifacts can one point towards to prove the fact that they have lived? What other anecdotes can one bring up at 3am, 12pm or any other time, to demonstrate to strangers the fact that one has lived? What other rings mark the trunk of one’s life?

I pray that through the fact that I will never change in (some of) my ways, that change will come. This is, of course, the definition of insanity, but the only part that I feel crazy about is my knowledge that I am bound to repeat myself- feel utterly ashamed in the fact that I dared to exist for just one second. But this is what makes me anything. What makes me me, what makes me you, what makes me us. By god I don’t fucking care. I will still try. I hope.