Breaking down

I read something by someone today that got me thinking about the web of relationships that we create around us. Specially in the context of relationships that die, some violent deaths, and some that surrender to the slow embrace of inevitability. Some leave us with a comfortable longing, and some leave us shaken up to the core, scared of even a mild breeze.

But no matter how they end, they leave permanent markers on us, like stamps on our existence always reminding us of what was. Changing us, and forever taking away that little innocence that stems from blind faith and trust. Leaving us just a little more cynical, and little more circumspect.

But still as we move on, we create new relationships, always different from the ones that preceded them, but similar in the sense that they too, shall end. For if the universe teaches us a lesson, it is the lesson of finiteness. How every thing has a life, not matter how long or how small, and with every end comes a new beginning, and the beginning always also triggers the beginning of the particular end. From the Big Bang to the Big Crunch, and from a butterfly's birth to its demise.

Still we find ourselves reaching out into the big unknown, trying to create planned random collisions of minds and if we're lucky, souls. And we, stupidly even, create new monuments on the debris of the fallen castles of our hopes and desires. Fooling ourselves into thinking that we are wiser for the loss, while in reality, we're still the same, just a little more uncertain.

Of course with every end, comes a period of examination. Examining the affects in terms of the causes, and at times building up causes that would somehow heal the bruises left by the wreckage...

Sometimes I feel that I would just get caged in the moment of the latest speculation, that everything would seize to exist, and all possibilities of an end would be taken away by the surge of nothingness. And yet, no matter how hopeless it all feels, I do get out of the all consuming black-hole (thank you Babar for leaving me with this wonderful notion). I start to move again. The small tentative steps of an 80 year old, followed by the mad dash of the blind bull, into the matador's sword.

This poem would be a good end to this, it's by Walter Savage Landor.

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!