I was reading Victor Frankl on the bus and I really liked this quote. “All this is not lost, though it is past; we have brought it into being. Having been is also a kind of being, and perhaps the surest kind.”
It doesn’t matter that the past was hard to live through and it also brings a kind of tiredness when we remember it. Or maybe it was the good kind of past, with the accomplishments and social connections that we no longer have. Maybe it was warm and comforting and kind, compared to the cold reality now- having to wake up and work and go to events that we would rather not attend, but have to attend for fear of being called antisocial, among other names. Having to enter a ballroom to network with people you will never really know, because work and profits are the only connecting factors.
Present suffering has to have a meaning for us to live through it well. Not just to survive and be carried along by time, for time will pass regardless of what we do. But to live it out day by day, even when we are scared and tired and unhappy, or irritated at others, or maybe, living while we are unable to see an end to our current feelings. The meaning will be different for each of us. Maybe it is a kid, maybe we are hoping to see our work finished- a book, an art piece, a movie, maybe it is our relationships with other people that holds meaning. We are irreplaceable in our genes and personality, the combination of environmental and time factors that makes us the only ones.
I was wondering as I read the book- so then, what is the meaning in my life? What actually is my life. The moments that add up to a life are sometimes, frankly quite unwanted. Meeting new people, taking the bus, handling group projects, getting up and eating oatmeal for breakfast. Washing pork ribs for dinner and having a cold feeling in my chest while I go about all my daily routines, feeling my heartbeat increase and wondering if I am having a heart attack or just foreshadowing what I’m scared of- crowds and loud noises. Wondering if it is possible to die of an elevated heart rate, and knowing that my blood pressure is normally 80/40. It is a balancing act of the things that I want to do, and not knowing if there’s any meaning in what I do.
Or maybe it is just being completely honest in my writing, and all the other things that comes with being alive (and hence being able to type), I just have to deal with them.