Undeniable

There are some things in life that are undeniable, their existence unquestioned and unassailable. Beauty, truth, suffering and, finally, death; there is no one on earth who can deny any of these. The facts of life, if you will.

When there is beauty, symmetry of form and line, when there is such beauty that is as pure as the moon's light on a clear lake, there is no denying it. Everyone sees it, everyone admires it, everyone collectively envies it and wishes to make it their own, to hold it in their possession and keep it close to themselves, like a prized diamond pendant tucked discretely under a shirt and hidden from other eyes. Beauty can exist in nature-- the glittering, velvety-jeweled carpet of the sea under a clear night sky with the millions of stars doubled in the mirror surface of the clear water. It can exist in someone's smile, in someone's words, in someone's lips. Beauty is everywhere and it is true, the truest truth we have.

When something is true, there is nothing in the world that can make it false. People may lie, cheat, and deceive others so that others cannot see the truth as it is, but no matter the cloaks and disguises people may throw over the truth, the truth remains irrevocably and undeniably true. When a man kills a woman, he has killed a woman. It does not matter if the woman had had a baby with another man, if she had taken his money and used him, tearing his heart out of his chest and wringing the blood out of it as she would the dirty dishwater from a dishtowel. It does not matter; it does not change the truth, the inevitable fact that he has killed that woman. There may be justification, there may not be. Some may believe he was right in doing so, others may believe that he was wrong. It doesn't change the fact of the matter—that he murdered her in the dead of night, a pillow covering her beautiful face as the moon shone upon her corn-silk hair, that she is dead and gone.

Ah, such suffering, such pain, such betrayal. But don't worry my darling, my honey, my dearest baby-doll—all suffering eventually comes to an end, just as all things come to an end. So rest your head on your pillow and think not of the poor man's broken heart, or the poor woman's heart that is whole but not beating.

However, all of these facts could have absolutely no meaning. The beauty of nature could be an accident (just like the little girl following that man into his hotel room…) and all suffering could be complete meaninglessness that fades into oblivion. There may be truth, but that doesn't mean there is meaning.

But then again, we are human and we like to attach meaning to things that are really quite meaningless, no? I believe, it's called—sentimentality? A music box has no real value, and yet it has meaning to us because our father who has gone away for a very long time (and who knows if he will ever return) gave it to us, with a smile on his tired face and a gentle pat on the head. So, since you are human, and since I am human, I believe there is meaning in all this. All of this is interwoven and can be lead back to, in some way, love. Beauty excites emotions of love and true love is unchangeable and impossible. Suffering comes from love spurned, love denied. Those who believe themselves in love will gladly hand themselves over to death for their love's sake, or visit death upon their love because of the passion of their anger.

There is a story that I have to tell; it is not a very important story and most probably it will not change your life. But it is a story, it is my story, and I must tell it before it explodes out of me in the form of something messier than words scribbled onto a paper. Though it may just be another story to add to the millions of stories in the world, I promise that it won't be a waste of your time. There will be beauty, oh most certainly. Truth? Perhaps, though every word every human says has as much chance of being true as it has of being false. Suffering, ah yes, isn't that the cornerstone of most stories? Suffering overcome, or suffering that sweeps our brave protagonist into despair, that is what makes a story interesting, a story real. And death? Well, I can't give that away yet, now can I?