No one ever has answer to what is a good life and what is a good death. But even a man who has himself destined to be a sacrificial lamb, a helper, a guardian, or a savior, doesn't know the answer. Is this really painful for not knowing it?
After all these days, I've come to a shocking conclusion. That no one will ever tell me what it is. That no one will even make an answer for me. Not even you. Not even you if at that time I didn't make a mistake. I have abandoned what is so-called hope, because there is really no need for such thing. Hope, is the root of disappointment. Hope, is only for children. I live, and I know that will die as that sparrow outside your window will die.
But don't get me wrong. I still think that a life dedicated into making a better world, for those who are oppressed and disadvantaged is valuable. A life dedicated to pursue knowledge is also valuable (because then I will be able to help people with different problems; to give them not only material helps, but also thoughts. Funny, because I once thought that I learned these various skills to be able to relate to my future children in whatever interests they'll have. But, upon this, I am not sure anymore). But those are just "what", and not "why". And I have stopped asking question ever since.
I have come to an understanding that my days have been counted. I can feel my days of reckoning are closing in. Yet I still struggle navigating around this grand obstacle called Life. Only to stumble, fall, be disoriented, and falter again. And rise once more. And stumble once more. A thousand times. A million times over. Of this, I don't even have the courage to ask for your attention, or thought, or understanding. Because not even you can reach me. Because not even you can reach me even if at that time I didn't make a mistake. I can only say, "thank you", and "I'm sorry", because I was never that worthy to be thought to begin with. And please, let this unworthiness be as it always is.
"People who lead a solitary existence always have something in their hearts which they are eager to talk about", once wrote Anton Chekov. So maybe this is it. I grow up alone. I have fended off every pain alone. But I have never regretted it, even if there hasn't been anyone who hugged me and tell me to stop being so desolate; even if there will never be anyone who can stop me from being... me. If there should be an answer, then maybe this is the answer of what is my conception of a good life and a good death: I will always help other people, including you, but I can never help myself. Until the end.
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"Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.” - James Douglas "Jim" Morrison.
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And why write an epitaph, if there will be no grieving upon me, and no question shall be answered upon my unceremonious departure? At that moment, I will ask everyone not to be in grief. Because I am not anyone's savior. Because I haven't done anything worthy of acknowledgement. And because I have done it, that is to be in grief upon myself, and it's enough. It's enough already. And I'm sure you agree with me: do not wail upon thing that is unworthy.
If, if, indeed someday I'll be gone, will you remember me? Will you be sad over me? Or will I stay unworthy in your memory? Will I ever be in your memory? Please, don't.
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