Wednesday, August 29, 2012

the only help is God's

I recently came across this quote while reading something online:  

"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone."

I supposed I remembered it because I can't help but feel that in all the bustling of life, we are infinitely alone. When I came back to Toronto from Egypt, I hoped and even expected that I would get help from people that I knew and loved with certain things. And over the past month and a half I have come to realize that most people live only for themselves, and have little or no desire to lend a hand to someone else (regardless of his/her affinity towards the other).

I don't claim to be the one person out of one hundred that actually helps people when they are in need, but I always thought of myself as someone who, when given the opportunity and means to help someone, would do so.

The fact that people can feign concern for you and your well-being in such a seemingly genuine way, then discard you when you're in a time of need disturbs me. It makes me question many things that I thought I knew. It makes parts of me that I didn't realize could hurt, hurt.

At the end of everything, it's truly only God that you can lean and rely on. No other person can give you what He does, or plant the seeds of serenity in your heart. But I wish I could see more good in people, too, because the more selfish and uncaring humans that I come to know, the more I fear I may be just like them.

Friday, August 24, 2012

on being late

It has always made me wonder - the fact that your life can be so full of things and people, but still feel lonely and without meaning. I've been building my whole life in the hopes that one day I would be someone, do something. But mostly I feel that I've disappointed myself and the people around me.

I know that the absolute truth should always make us realize that God always has a plan for us beyond our own limited imaginations. Perhaps my life was not meant to have significant meaning in and of itself. Maybe my son or daughter is meant to be someone, to do something. Perhaps the meaning of my life is tied to that of the billions of others who have passed and are passing through this world without really touching the ground with their bare hands to understand truth and pain and life.

The older I grow, the more I come to know that more things inside me are broken than I can fix.