The Meaning of Life

My Life Sucks.

This was the phrase uttered from every teenager in America, me among them; just another angst fifteen year old. Life had gotten out of control. What was once comforting and manageable had grown out of proportion. It had metamorphosed from a tame bunny in to a giant fanged beast. Suddenly it seemed I was doomed to the same fate as Atlas, the world’s weight suddenly placed upon my weak shoulders. The problems mounted one on top of another.

I was caught between a blood thirsty custody battle, placing me to make a choice I was unprepared for. The welfare of my younger siblings was also placed upon this choice.

What I wanted, what I really wanted was to be free. If I were only a few years older I could leave. I could go to college and begin a whole new life, on my own. I could find myself, my voice, my place in the world. I talked to other teenagers nearing this time in their life. They were unprepared to leave the safety and comfort of their parents womb. They were sheltered to the harsh and cruel ways of the world. It seemed unjust that these children who were clearly just that, would be getting everything I dreamed for. Everything I was equally if not better prepared for, and they didn’t even want it.

I had lighter, yet equally stressful problems as well. I was amidst the drama of a first relationship. It was wonderful, beautiful, and gave me a well needed distraction from the bigger issues in my life, but it scared me. I wasn’t prepared to give over my carefully guarded heart in to someone else’s clumsy hands.

Life began to feel meaningless. To end it was cowardly , this I knew, but if you were dead you could hardly worry about honor. For as any in the closet twihard knew “Death is peaceful - easy. Life is harder.” These words seemed to speak to the very essence of my soul and so I began to wonder. Would it hurt? What method would hurt the least? Would anyone care? If they did why should I for their would be no regret if I ceased to exist? It was selfish, to wallow in self pity as I was, but I was fifteen and nothing ever went right. I thought I deserved to be selfish. It was the lack of dignity and honor however that kept me grounded and away from thoughts of suicide.

One day as all hope evaporated, I found myself praying. This was odd as I was considering myself a borderline atheist. I prayed to the deities I had grown up with Buddha, Jesus, Mary, and then the ones I had met through personal studies Isis, Artemis, Mary Of Magdala, and Brighid. I begged for an answer to guide me through. What was I meant to do with my fragile life? To my surprise, I was answered.

It was a voice compiled of many voices, soft and mystical. It sounded female but their was a male undertone. It gave me a single word that calmed my fears and surrounded me in a blanket of warmth.
Love.

The thought hit me like a thousand miniature fireworks exploding through my heart. I was having a long awaited epiphany. Love, of course how could I have been so blind? It was the source of all lives. It gave them meaning. Their was no point to living if one didn’t have love in some shape or form. We humans exuded it in all ways possible. Sometimes it caused us great pain, but as spoken from the great Alfred Lord Tennyson, “It is Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback