It has been said, and it has been said too many times -- suffering exists to deepen joy; pain exists to give life meaning. In the compendium of human languages, in the entire catalogue of words, they point to one basic concept -- balance. And looking at the big picture, it seems to be true. What does a field of black mean without speckles of contrasting white? Light is bereft of beauty without a spectrum of colors to reflect. Balance is what the Universe strives for, in a scale too grand and much too magnificent our minds can only dream of imagining.
Our vision is limited from where we stand. The enormity of entire worlds moved by a singular energy -- a force so great that an individual's life seems all but a flicker -- what philosophized, romanticized idea of balance do we, in our level of existence, cling to?
Suffering exists to deepen joy. "That simple-minded schmuck without ambition, who doesn't know what he wants to do for the rest of his sad, sorry life; that poor, poor man who will end up alone, embittered, and withered to the bone -- I'm glad I'm not him!" Perhaps it is in this way life achieves balance, but who am I to say? I am just one life whose light is few and far in between. Whose landscape is more valley than mountain. "We try our best," some people would say. "Kindness is what matters," or "Life is measured in love." All wise, noble words, to be sure, but a point is crossed when one simply becomes... exhausted. Even a smile becomes wearisome.
Would it be strange, would it be too arrogant to say that I am too different from everyone else? Perhaps I am not too different. Perhaps there are a multitude of people battling the same demons as I am. I feel weaker, though. Every minute, I feel like I am about to lose. Balance? I exist so other people can feel good about themselves -- that's the balance this life has taught me. Hope? All smoke, all illusion. Nothing but skin, empty of flesh; nothing but stars, empty of light.
