It'd be nice to believe in miracles. It'd be nice to be able to place hope in that 1% and perhaps pray for some sort of divine intervention. It'd be nice to analyse past events from the perspective of someone who believes in fate and that "things happen for a reason", in a bid to make sense of the randomness that has caused such utter chaos in my life.
Unfortunately, I'm not that person. I don't know when I became so coldly rational; perhaps law school and the law did something to me...or maybe it's simply how I've always been wired. I believe in miracles insofar as I believe that coincidences happen. Over the past few months, I've also wondered, incessantly, ceaselessly, why certain events have unfolded the way they did and led me to this point in my life, when I feel, for the first time in my 25 years, what it really means to be close to death; to be so utterly alone, to be an island on which no one else steps because I don't let them in, or because it's too depressing and complicated for them to be here with me; and that Thomas Hobbes was right all along (as was my ex), that life, in man's natural state of being, is poor, nasty, brutish and short.
Especially that last word - short. These philosophical ruminations on death and life and religion and the banal proletariat comfort of religion and the meaninglessness of life help me only insofar as I'm able to make sense of things in a way that makes sense to me. That said, while I have no problem (insofar as this is possible) with the idea of the total extinction of my existence, of fading into sheer oblivion once I die, I cannot stomach the idea of the same happening to the people that I love. It's this fear, or reluctance to accept reality, or whatever, that probably haunts Julian Barnes and prompted him to put together Nothing to be Frightened Of. I've never understood why someone would be agnostic and sit on the fence like that...until now. It's not easy to accept death; it's even more difficult to think about it happening to the people that you love. I've never once considered what I would do when my parents pass on because the mere fleeting thought of it causes a lump to form in my throat. Now, though, it's actually so much worse.
I've only ever experienced one death my entire life and I was 8 when it happened. I've never had anything major happening to me. I still don't know why this is happening.
And it's okay going to get worse - much worse - from here.
I feel like a trip to Taipei so badly and I need to go by myself, but my grandparents would freak out. Even if I went by myself my relatives would be hovering around all the time, too. The only way is to go discreetly and not tell my relatives but I'd have to stay in a hotel for that. That would be so weird.
I need to get away from all this sadness for a while. The world makes more sense to me in Taipei. It's comforting, it's familiar, like the touch of your parent's hand on your forehand when you're having a fever. I've never needed that so badly like I do now.
I'm thinking of going in May after my family obligations and before the summer begins. I hope it happens. I'm emotionally detached from everything right now; but once it hits...