Who Knows?
“He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.”
What a waste of flowers. To tug at the bright petals, waste their beauty on words that, quite honestly, never hold any true power. Don’t pretend it isn’t true. If you reach the happy end, you let a smile on your face and ponder the possibilities, letting something as simple as a number decide someone else’s feelings. You forget that it was by chance that you picked that flower, and that while we have a fate of some kind, no plant can determine it, nor the truth. Perhaps the fluttering petals that now litter the ground are just an excuse for the literer to believe whatever thoughts flow through their mind, perhaps it’s just the kind of mind game you play on yourself, a way to rationalize something based on irrationality. At the same time, if you end on a sour note, you are pulled back to your senses, and you strip the act of all of its power. You withdraw the magic you believed in just before it disappears forever, just before you see what you hide from. It’s a stupid game. A game that only ends with a fool and wilted stem.
Humans are kind of dumb, I’m not going to lie. We explores the depths in which we were never really intended to see, and we pick apart everything we find, and yet, while we’ve been gifted with speech, we keep our mouths shut, our thoughts hidden, our pleas silenced. We let the world dictate us before we dictate our worlds. We hand over the controller to everyone else who doesn’t have control over themselves either. And if you don’t fit this category, you’re an outcast, broken, rude, unrespectable, unloveable. Sometimes I wonder if people remember who they were before they had a line drawn around them, or if perhaps, none of us has ever really known.
I get tired of trying to know myself. I get tired of trying to understand why I am the way I am. Is it really just genetics, a certain series of neurons setting off, signals traveling through my mind? In that case, am I really just a sequence of chemical reactions? Is that all it is? Is that all I am?
It feels pointless. Every answer will just make me ask something else, a never ending cycle of the lack of acceptance. The lack of just being ok with what I’m given. Ungrateful I suppose. And yet, I don’t stop. “Why?”, you may be asking. Hell if I know.
“I love him. I love him not. I love him. I love him not.”
We don’t ask the irrationality to answer this question, even when we don’t know this answer. Perhaps it’s because we know, deep inside, that we won’t be satisfied with this mind game, we won’t see that magic that we let decide the facts of someone else’s life. We’re selfish. We are the complicated ones, the ones who’s emotions can’t be summed up to flower petals, even when it’s perfectly fine to use on someone else.
We want say that we are so much more than the facts that we’ve uncovered, we want to believe that we aren’t as simple as they make it seem, and it isn’t our fault. It isn’t our fault that we believe that we are so complex, because it feels complex, while in reality, maybe it’s actually very simple, just beyond our comprehension. Maybe we simply aren’t capable of having an answer. Maybe that’s why we pluck flowers. Maybe that’s why we stay quiet in the loudest moments. Maybe that’s why we keep asking questions. At the same time though, who am I to tell you this?
Hell, I don’t even know what the point of this writing is. I don’t know what I wanted to say, what I wanted you to get out of this. I started with something, but I’ve lost it in the moment. I don’t know. Take this train of thought of mine, and do with it what you wish. It’ll come and go, just like any other. Maybe you’ll find some magic in it, some understanding that is beyond me. Or, maybe not. I’ll let the flower petals decide.