Life Remains A Constant Mystery

Happiness is what we strive towards our whole life, trying to fill the need to be content, throught our lives.

My head stuck out of the window, hair flying haphazardly into my face, lips devoid of any moisture and eyes shut, the sun flickering on my closed lids. The car moves silently, efficiently in all its fossil fuel guzzling glory. Opening my eyes would just break the fragilely created façade of what I truly feel, what I truly see.

But I do see.

I see the road that I travel on, feeling the hard cracks in the pavement and the unyielding ditches that have been created when the tar had been eroded by thousands of other vehicles, travelling, just like I am. I see the street children, cold and frail, begging for their own livelihoods, pleading with someone, anyone to help them escape the horror that they call life. I see the tramp that lays in the corner, old and battered, a long-ago forgotten remnant of the city, as familiar a sight as the next street I pass. I see the waste strewn along the road, the hills, the countryside, like wrapping paper from a past Christmas, tossed on the side, a byproduct of a growing, emerging nation.

I hear voices too.

The thriving buzz of the city, an ongoing noise, a contradiction towards itself, thriving with possibility, teeming with life, housing wealth, money, and status, yet… in the dark pits of the inner city, in the places most noticed yet most overlooked, lies reality. Yes, I know why this dark decrepit way of life exists. Yes I know why poverty, sickness and hunger exists.

Does that mean I understand it, do I even want to?

Am I so blinded by my own judgments, am I so ignorant of the world around me, that I just overlook and seemingly ignore this reality?

Every generation is born with its own responsibility laid out for them, a life planned and already conceived, waiting to be put into action. Every generation blames the one past for previous mistakes yet to be rectified, lying in wait like cobwebs awaiting the arrival of a duster to clean them out. Every generation makes its own unique mistakes, every generation is faced with solving their own problems, and every generation is born to face hardship, judgement and the reality of the truth.

Why do we even bother?

If we live to die, why do we bother with rectifying our mistakes? Why do we bother with facing our hardships and learning from our mistakes, growing in character as we do? Why not spend our lives lying in the sun, basking like lazy crocodiles on a dry riverbank?

Is it because of hope?

Do our ideals of a utopian world still exist? Is it emotion that drives us to destroy and procreate, like a twisted manipulated version of the yin-yang theory?

Is it the hope that the next generation will experience the happiness that others past have experienced? We may evolve every second; growing more technologically advanced with each new venture taken… though emotions never change. Joy, happiness, sadness, anxiety. No matter how advanced we may be, no matter how impersonal our means of communication may become, no matter how devastated our world may be, our emotions are our wavering stability. Ever present, ever potent, our emotions are our hope in a world not really our own.

Our world is not our own, it does not belong to us and never will. We are but mere, temporary beings borrowing time on precious land. Fighting for more time to live, to play, to be. Fighting against the fate that we are destined to, the assurance of death and the knowledge that one day all that has been built will tumble down, like a fragile sandcastle, meticulously built yet easily ruined in a crumbled mess as the tide ebbs and flows to a rhythm of its own.

Closing my eyes, contentment comes to me, yet again. I am happy, to be ignorant of life's problems. Happy to be caught up in my own world, lost to the superficiality of what life's façade is. My life may be an insignificant blemish on the world's surface, I may be an uncaring, selfish being… but living in my own world seems a much better option the in living in a world of reality.