Acceptance is a strange thing. It can mean something different for everyone in different contexts. Just how far does “acceptance” go to have whatever be truly accepted. People, ideas, actions. Whatever. So much whatever.
So many of us are told that forgiveness, if not forgetting something, is the only way to move on. How many times is that forgiveness true? How many things can ever be truly forgiven in the grandest sense of the word and action? What exactly is the line, and who do you draw it vs. cross it for once that time comes?
Forgetting can be dangerous, even if often cathartic. Actually forgetting, because you truly do not care anymore, that works for some things. That works for some. Pretending to forget can be dangerous in a different way. Work in a different way. Depends on the individuals. The situations. What was involved. What history was there, if any. What future, if any.
Some times you just have to accept things are the way they are and that people will always be who they present themselves to be. Whom they choose to show to the world. How they act. How they react. Some people do change. Others bristle at the thought. Others still think change is something different than others do. Another line to draw. Another line to cross.
Life is a fickle bitch. She’s elusive and strange. Well meaning yet selfish in a way no one can truly comprehend. To draw out one’s soul can be exhausting. To do. To witness. To experience. To love.
The universe has granted us these existences for whatever reason, be it something or none or so much more. You wonder if this is really all there is, you try to find some grander meaning, maybe you do, maybe you find several, but it just runs on and on and on like this damn sentence already. Meandering as if through forests and the cobblestone streets in villages of yore. Bumpy, dirty, somewhat painful. Beautiful, terrifying, glorious. Speeding ahead at a sudden pace when least expected. Not seeing the wall ahead. Not even the ones you put up yourself.
I can’t claim to know everything despite others having accused me of such. I definitely know I don’t know everything, and don’t even think I want to know everything. That actually sounds terrifying once you get that initial satisfaction. What else would there be? (Pause to think of Janet on “The Good Place”. Not a girl, not a robot…) I don’t trust anyone that ever claims they know everything, and I definitely wouldn’t want someone to trust me should I ever say that, but no. I know we can’t, and probably shouldn’t.
It might hurt too much.
So I accept this is the way it is and things will be as they will be. As they always were, and forever will be. If life really were a box of chocolates, they would be melted and half eaten, probably moldy, once they arrived. Then you’d find that one nugget. That caramel something. That glorious-ness. Untouched. Separate. You love it, you savor it, but the rest is still rotten. Is that still okay?
Is that just life?
