The Cathedral of Time

I feel as though there used to be, in some inward reaching chamber, an explanation of what life is or was supposed to be—it was clear, and vivid, and written on the walls of the cathedral of time. Since that time, when I might have once discovered life’s actual meaning, this same cathedral has burned down. Now, as it stands, there is nothing in life that offers its true explanation, mostly because life cannot be fully explained. There is no true explanation. Many platitudes are offered in regard to the explanation of life: “life is what you make it” and “life is short” are some of these such explanations. I do not feel as though any of these explanations have any true meaning. There was never, in that cathedral of time, any clear signage or arrow pointing to the direct meaning contained therein—no one, upon entering, could clearly discern where they were supposed to look in deciphering life’s true meaning. In fact, it was never about looking at all—rather, it was about the feeling. I believe that the closest anyone will ever get to the true meaning of life will be through a feeling. Often, things feel absurd when they are not, and going to the one bar close to ten PM to see a particular band play and hearing the sound and talking to people about mundane things that suddenly become absurd—there is a feeling there, however slight, of something. There is a richness in this nostalgia, and there is meaning in the conflagration of individual souls in an unplanned room together.

I have for some time been thinking that my life is a tragedy. This is both hard for me to admit to myself, let alone others, yet at once it seems perfectly natural. And there are others amongst the living that are harboring some similar tragedies. There are often tragedies in personal lives. There are often forgotten houses made of stone. And yet, in these life tragedies, there is a story therein—there is a tale, rendered in an absurd and beautiful way. For one’s life to be a tragedy, it must first be a story. And for the story to be a tragedy, it must contain some outcome that causes distress, suffering, or an undesirable result. Yet, with all the pain that accompanies this tragedy, there is a narrative which allows it. Perhaps it is from the sinews that hold this story together that the true feeling accompanying an explanation of life can be sought and, after time, found in a way. And amidst this all, there is an elephant in the room: this tragedy is beautiful. If that is true, which I believe it is, then I too am beautiful because it is my story, after all. If these other stories which stay hidden in the lives of others are actual tragedies, then their beauty is equal—their capacity for beauty is unencumbered. It is natural then to assume that people are objects of beauty. For even if there is no tragic event in an individual person’s life, that in itself is a tragedy of its own kind.

Feelings are powerful. Feelings are more powerful than even the most adept science—they define us, shape us, and most importantly of all, give life meaning. One might even say that it is emotion that drives mathematics. For certain it is true that mathematic truths and postulations exist without human observation, but why do human beings seek to understand the solutions to mathematics? It is because of feelings. We desire to solve the equation. We desire to calculate the best plan for constructing a building. We yearn for the anatomy of physics. This is all feeling.

However large or small your personal tragedy might be or become, how it might evolve, how it might sometimes make sense, how it might sometimes be chaos—it is yours, and it is your story, and it is larger and more powerful than can even be fathomed. I do not know the full scope and depth of my own personal tragedy. However I can understand its beauty and value. If life was filled eternally with pleasantries and sunny days, it cannot be a life—just like a plain white room is nothing without shadows. And in this way, it is true that life is to be treasured. I do not claim to offer advice to anyone’s particular life story. Yet how will you know if you don’t live? You don’t need the cathedral. All you need is yourself.