There is no limit to suffering, and it’s a miracle any of us survive it. You’ll never have enough tears to match the sheer potential for human affliction, so we try—desperately—not to stoke the flames of our own angst. Nothing in this world ever fully makes sense, and no one is someone we will ever truly know. The people in our lives, the people on our screens—they’re all just perceptions, versions of what we think they are. That’s what I realized: no one is anything tangible. Everyone is just a vision our hearts and minds assemble. There are secrets tucked away, hearts that wander, and minds so complex that all we can do is guess, wonder, and build our own stories. And somehow I’m left with even more confusion about the world, about people, about how all we really have is what we can see. Beneath every surface there’s a whole world we’ll never touch. Isn’t that strange? We move through life with almost no idea what anything truly is. I still don’t know if that’s a gift, a curse, or just the cost of being alive.
Sometimes I wonder what I’d choose—to know everything or nothing at all. And honestly, I’ve learned more than I ever asked for. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. Lately it feels more haunting than helpful. But maybe that’s the point of life: to live, to love, to question, to wonder, to create and perceive whatever we can. Human existence is cruel, beautiful, and raw. And some days, I think I’d rather not know anything at all.
Maybe that’s the curse of growing up. You start seeing how thin the veil really is, how much you never asked to understand, how much you can’t unlearn once it appears. I used to think understanding would save me—that if I could figure people out, decode the world, I’d finally feel steady and safe. But the more I learned, the less stable everything felt. People aren’t puzzles to solve; they’re storms to pass through, mirrors that show pieces of yourself you didn’t know were missing or broken. And the world isn’t a neat equation. It’s a beautiful, glitching mess that doesn’t owe clarity to anyone.
So maybe not knowing is the closest thing to peace. Maybe ignorance is a kind of sanctuary, a room without sharp edges. But here I am—a little too awake, a little too aware—wishing some truths had never found me. Still, I keep going. Because even in the confusion and the ache, there are moments that cut through the fog: light on water, breath after drowning, someone laughing softly beside you and everything making sense for just a second. And maybe that’s why we stay, why we try, why we keep loving even when it hurts. Because every now and then, the world shows its hand just enough to make you believe the mystery might be worth it.
Leave a Reply