The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Shakespeare

The problem with growing older is this: when we were young and feckless, it was easy to draw the lines in black and white. “So-and-so fucked me over; he/she used me; this is my enemy and I have been wronged.” Now all I see are a bunch of struggling people, in varying degrees of unhappiness and being wronged or wronging. Or just in pain. Then there’s always good old-fashioned death and illness to contend with, and there aren’t any answers for that either. It comes without reason or warning, taking our breath away. We’re stunned by life because in the end, we have no answers.

It was easier when we could point fingers and blame; it made us feel in control of our destiny. But we’re not in control, and often the most dramatic effects upon our lives stem from the most senseless acts. In the end, we are always conquered by our own humanity: the thing that makes us the most strong also makes us the most weak.

We’re messy, flawed, chaotic beings all bouncing through life trying to make meaning out the strange, but sometimes life packs its message directly and we’re left at its mercy. For now, life’s capriciousness has kept me out of the path, but watching all of my friends and loved ones struggle with their own heartbreak makes me realize how close the void is to all of us and there are no guides to getting through it.

My love to you all. You’re killing me over here.

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