Life Goes On
In spite of everything that happens, life goes on. I’ve seen so much so fast, yet here I am, still here, still going. Ups and downs — far too many downs, unfortunately. The feeling of leaving my entire life behind to come to Iceland was one of numbness: I had nothing to lose. Then, when I failed to establish anything here and had to return to the US, the feeling was of pure defeat. I spent many sad months in silent contemplation. But life continues. I came back to Iceland last November. That was a feeling of dread. I had no home, no job, no friends. No knowledge. No experience.
It took me two months to find a home and four months to find a job. Those first two months were difficult. The four months in total were confusing, terrifying, and anxious. But I made friends. I found a home. I found a job. I even wrote a book during that time. Life doesn’t stop, so I had to keep going.
There have been many hardships along the way. Starting with the girl who made me a writer. I was thrown aside in May over a ridiculous situation. Nevertheless, I went on. I started a weekly writing group. I started meeting the old man weekly. I continued with the library, weekly. I started meeting a friend weekly. Plus work.
My friends left the country. My living situation became unbearable. My writing group died. The library stopped. The old man went off for work. My friend hurt me. And the tourist season at work caused me to burn out in a blinding flash. Then I went to the US, saw everything I didn’t want to see, got stuck for an extra day, lost a lot of money over an absurd flight mishap, and lost all my belongings.
But then things began to pick up because I met someone and had my first romantic situation at 25. It lasted for roughly two weeks and ended because she didn’t want to be my first romantic situation. She was mature about it, and what happened was perfectly understandable — everything ended well. However, that doesn’t change the feelings in the end: life goes on, but to what end? I make progress, but for what?
It’s almost unbelievable to me how much can go wrong so fast. Obviously, these aren’t life-changing ordeals. The problem is me and my life. In this time I’ve been in Iceland, I have been trying and trying as best as I can to live. After my entire life on this earth, to finally start to live. And it doesn’t work. For reasons beyond my control. Yet life goes on. And so must I.
What do I do? That’s the question that bothers me. I said it myself before, do whatever you want… except that’s exactly what I am doing. Which leaves nothing but the idea, “You’ll get there eventually.” I would like to believe that is true, but that brings me to another topic: one of my coworkers, from my writing group, started a philosophy group. Only three people have come to the first two meetings, but we had a very good discussion last time about success and what it is and means. Ultimately, we agreed that there is a conflation of success and happiness. Similarly, we talked about goals. We agreed that anything and everything is pointless unless you are happy now. Because you don’t know whether reaching a goal will actually make you happy in the end.
Thus, I ask: What will make me happy right now? Why is it that I know happiness here and there, when things are good, but then things go bad and my happiness is lost? Where is the missing consistency? Part of me wants to blame the shape of modern society — how we aren’t in communities anymore where people have regular, meaningful interactions almost daily. But I would counter that by saying we must adapt to life, whatever and however it is. So, in this situation, I must search for that answer. What is clear is that everything that happens is full of meaning and purpose. There is a reason for everything. And we can’t know that reason, or else life loses its meaning.
The things I enjoy are simple things: reading, writing, walking, talking, art, languages. But I like to discuss what I read, share what I write, walk with company, talk about life, learn others’ experiences of art, and engage with those languages. Yes, I find joy in doing those things alone. That joy is greater when it is shared. What takes away that joy I find is when others couldn’t care less:
When the people I meet these days say they avoid sad literature because “Why would anyone want to read that?” Though I argue that by knowing sadness, we can appreciate happiness. That all the people who asked for my books never read them, who said they would tell me what they thought but never did. That those I walk with don’t enjoy the walk itself, they would rather take the bus or bike. That those I talk to want to talk about other things, like food and complaints about work. That others’ experience of art is to call “pretty picture,” or create something untrue to their soul. That those who like languages don’t put any effort into learning or practicing.
None of that is my concern. Those are other people, and I am me. It simply bothers me that this is the state of the world. So many people I know communicate using TikToks and Instagram reels and Facebook memes. “How are you?” has become sending a “fun” link. We dare not use our words, dare not express ourselves. Everyone is so eager and desperate to fit in. Not everyone is like that, of course. But too many are. For whatever reason, making people laugh seems to be synonymous with being liked. To the point of losing any genuine humanity.
What all these experiences have taught me, taking me to the highest highs and lowest lows over and over again, is how to know and understand people. The problem with that is there are some things I simply don’t want to see. Like when my friend tells me he would want to stay home playing games all day if he could; he says he enjoys it, but I see sadness, escapism. When someone else tells me she is tired, doesn’t want to do anything in groups, makes certain types of jokes and comments, I see someone with an inner emptiness, trying so hard to find what fits. When my boss snaps at me, I see the weight of her inner turmoil.
In the end, I don’t know what I’m saying, thinking, or doing. I’m just living. Or doing my best to, anyway. Life will go on — it always does. Up and down in its perpetual cycle. On that note, my writing group’s theme for this week is poetry. We spun our genre wheel and got romance as the bonus genre. Which I found ironic given all that happened so recently. I wrote a series of pieces. In the light of all that has happened, I wrote this final one yesterday, Ashes in the End:
Who I am in the day is nothing more than my unspoken words in the night. To see the light shine upon a face so far away is ever a greater burden than to hear its call from the unknown of the dark. It is better to ask, “Who calls?” than to see the stilled lips of a face known.
When the night comes, I hear her songs. When comes the day, I watch her dance. I do not. For I know not how. How to sing. How to dance. How to be. And yet she watches. And yet she listens. The only motion that I know is the waving of my hands. The only voice that I speak is the asking who she is.
The only touch I have ever known is the farthest reach of her shadow in the setting of the sun. Who I am in the night is nothing more than my echoes of the experiences of the day. Who draw their tears and wear their lines. Who beg the shadows their mercy. It is better to meet the eyes of one who looks than to hear the voice of lips unknown.
To know what? Familiarity? And were we not alone? Perhaps if the sun were to shine its light from directions I have yet to see; would I then come to know the truth of this place I have come to call my home? And what is that? But a place in the light of the day.
Who I am and where I am is lost to the grip of the night. Anyone. Anywhere. I would not know. If not for the songs I hear in the wind in whose silence I would freeze. And the shining sun may shine on all: what is known; and that which is not. On anyone. Anywhere. On faces yet to be seen.
So when the face I see so far becomes one so familiar, I look to the sun who dances before me, who answers my calls of the night: “I am the sun, the one you know. You need not anyone else.” As it dances. As it shines. As the light it sheds sets fire to the wind. As its careless passion would burn through the world. As the uttering of its voice puts end to the peace that is known only in the night.
As the turning of the day to the turning of the night turns the wheel of desire. To sing. To dance. To join. To know. To know what? I would beg to ask the moon. But the moon laughs in silent mockery. Enemy of the day, traitor of the night. She hides in darkness with nothing lost. Thus am I victim to the night. And the sun in his pride who shall not cease. I am victim to the day. To know only a face. To know only a voice. And nevermore shall I know more.
What does it matter? — when what is frozen in the night turns to ashes in the day? When at last I realize that all that was in need be done was to take but a step in the direction of the face that met mine with a smile? — each and every day in the light of the sun. Who greeted my calls with song? — begging harmony I dared not answer out of tune. What does it matter? — when my first step is taken in the ash? When there is nothing to desire in the end.
And yet when comes again the night, I hear the whispers of song on the wind.
As a final aside, there are two sad interactions I had yesterday that say all that my words cannot. First, was someone denying a group of kids access to our building. They wanted to buy ice cream, but were underage. We usually let them in, but the person who denied them said, “I had to say no to someone today.” Then, I know someone who is in a rough spot. This person bothers me a lot but doesn’t have much else, so I do my best to be there. I told a friend about a situation with this person, and that friend made a comment on how this person should “get their own life.” There’s no need for me to offer any reflection on those situations other than to ask where our empathy has gone.