It’s very funny how life operates on a daily basis.
If it moves in a circular pattern, life therefore is not random generic phenomena, but a product of an irretrievable series of personal choices and rapid decisions. If likened to a book, there are chapters quite similar to another—a page written using different sets of words to paint a vivid and blurry picture.
Life happens when you decided to lie down in bed one particular humid afternoon. You start contemplating on how things are, wondering, evaluating, and figuring how things will be like exactly a year from now. It continues to roll at some nights when you’re buzzed and spontaneous; twenty three hours later, nostalgia becomes a swarm of flies extracting some wistful wishing that the time loss would come back. Life happens when some valuable things are forgotten, and the empty spaces from the past linger with regrets. Life happens when days of fragmented memories return to haunt you and make you whine in pain because you let a definite single precious moment pass by.
Life slips by when you intricately plan everything ahead of what is now; but when you’re about to take the leap, the mere idea of crossing the line start to shake your spirit. We construct restrictions that stop us from living life. It happens when we lose heart; when you let doubt cloud the golden rays the light.
Sometimes, life would force you to rush things that you forget to pay attention to its details. In a bat of an eye, you would see life changing, evolving, and withdrawing all the necessary specifics. In losses or gains, life still does happen.
Life is more than euphoria and far greater than utopia. Life is more than the wallowing in sadness; a depression that stains all the colors away. It is more powerful than a black hole. Life is bigger than anything else. It is an unsolved murder mystery; a misplaced puzzle piece; a sick person greeted by death.
While for some, it is pristine concept easily understood, others brawl to eliminate its uncertainty and vagueness. It does not stop spinning when one decides to, it keeps on spinning round and round. It does not stop writing a book. It does not stop painting a picture. Even so, life happens. Life moves in a circular pattern, a motion perfected by its imperfections.