This never-ending pain. This constant sorrow. When it finally registers to you that grief has come home, and she sits herself down on your heart it almost feels like relief. You’ve been here before. It almost feels like home.
Funny concept that one. Home. It’s where the heart is, correct? Or is it where your heart was last comfortable and it’s not this place where you’re living now. This place that was designed for my special needs and accommodates my physical limitations as best as any place ever could, but it simply won’t become home despite my best efforts. This place continues to be the house. It’s just a house. Four walls one of which is shared with a next-door neighbor. I am unmoored. Set free. Drifting around without a base without a foundation. In a sea of confusion and disappointment. Never realizing how important it was from the very beginning to have a home base a place of calm foundation. But knowing something was missing something fundamental and basic to having a life worth living.
Another funny concept, that one is. A life worth living. What are the most basic building blocks of this thing called a life worth living. What exactly is this life worth living and how does one pursue it? Again, much to my chagrin the only person who can answer that question for me is me. A conundrum for certain.
I think having a life worth living includes activity that gets you out of your head and into the world around you. And yet I resist the idea that my life worth living needs to include life beyond my own set of four walls, one of which is shared. I refuse the notion that my physical location must be a problem to solve instead of merely the place I happen to be. That’s what I long to have in my life worth living – merely four walls to encircle my version of a life worth living nothing more than that.
My version of a life worth living must reflect creativity in some way. Beauty that comes alive through words or images that could only have come from my head making them uniquely my own. Images in vivid color if likely abstract versions of the concepts I am attempting to bring to life on a canvas or poster board. Presenting these uniquely me images likely involves making some kind of mess with paint or water getting on my actual person or soiling my environment around me likely involving asking for yet more help to clean myself or my environment. Things I’d much rather be able to handle myself.
I’m told by the internet that having a life worth living involves experiences of beauty in the world around me. Again, though, I realize that there must be a limit to the amount of beauty in experiencing my internal environment of four walls, one of them shared, allows me to take in. But why? Why can’t my version of this life worth living be enclosed inside of four accessible walls? Why can’t it be whatever it is that I want it to be and not what the internet tells me it should be.
Contributions to society at large should be part of having a life worth living, according to the internet. My version of this centers around this blog, this spewing of word vomit I insist on putting out into the world regardless of the simple fact being that nobody asked me for it. Although it’s me who benefits the most from this activity the most. Does this make it a secondary effort? A selfish focus that might somehow find a listening ear in the grand realm of digital ones and zeros a minor miracle in my book. When the stars align and produce these connections despite me best efforts to keep my life within these four walls, one of them shared. Little miracles happen in this daily life despite one’s efforts to keep things contained, confined, managed down to the last iota or detail. Life resists being contained even when you have an expert manipulator on the job, for an expert I happen to be.
What does my life worth living need to accommodate? I struggle to figure it out.
Source: bethybrightanddark.com