We all want to believe that the world, like an oyster, holds a pearl of truth. Some divine and indisputable truth that awaits our discovery. I want more than anything for that to be true—that life is inherently meaningful and I’m too blind to see it. That’s the fallacy.

Life itself is a blank slate, and we must add its color, shape, and form to derive any meaning for it. Meaning, in order words, has to be invented or accepted as an impossibility.

I fell into a pit of despair with the notion that all is decided and deserved and for the best. The only way I could climb out was to throw down that burden and follow the light. I set fire to the love that could not be, the life that could not be. I could not help but look back at the flames of self-inflicted hell and desire as they burned, his disappointed face dissolving into orange mist—I kept climbing. I pictured a life of Red roses and cheeks and lips and sweaters disappearing into the darkness from which it came.

After all of it, I fell upon new grass and bathed my skin in the silky sunlight. What a relief! This fresh world put my body to rest and my mind at peace.

So close to him, yet he would never hold me in a loving embrace. What misery! That misery was my invention of an unrequited love. But I never deserved that, I never chose him. Love is meaningless—I gave it meaning. What would life look like if I would control what it means to me?

What would happen if around that hateful love a pearl formed?