Loss

I think there comes a point in the life of every struggler on life's path when the inner reservoir runs dry; when broken bones and sallow flesh grow heavy, when the arm can no longer grasp the hilt of a sword, when the armor breaks, when the fire sputters out and all that remains is embers and ash, when injury compounds upon injury, when recovery is no longer possible, when the wound runs too deep and breaks open again, when the skin turns bloodless and pale, when the wolves circle in the dark periphery, when the will to lift one foot in front of the other is shattered.

We all begin life with a passion and a desire, with a longing for a place where we can rest, a place where we can be safe, a place where struggle ceases and loving begins. The world, and the human spirit whose ontological responsibility it is to live out its allotted term of life, are both inherently good.

But the reality is that what once was is no more. We remember things that were inherently good and beautiful to us, but the passage of time is cruel; these things are slowly degraded, defaced, and destroyed. We feel their absence, each memory a scar. Pain, compounded by memory of better times, pervades every subsequent moment. And eventually we lose even the bittersweet faculty of memory, damaged and hurt, but unable to account for the pain. Because that's what life is; life is prolonged pain and the frustration of longing. Life is an extended exercise in loss.

And God is there, always present, always smiling, always detached, and always beyond reach. There is no life apart from God. A sound might as well think of its life apart from the air it moves in, or a fish, of water. But everything that is created is subject to decay. Hearts and bodies break, dreams fade, hope withers, and humanity learns in horror that it is alone. The object of all longing is just beyond reach, and every effort to reach it invariably results in injury to both flesh and spirit. No, the question is not whether or not God exists, but whether or not God is cruel.

"Why are we still here? Just to suffer? Every night, I can feel my leg... and my arm... even my fingers. The body I've lost... the comrades I've lost... won't stop hurting... It's like they're all still there. You feel it, too, don't you?" -Kazuhira Miller, The Phantom Pain.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiS1xQoQvKE