a celestial reconciliation
entry no. 6 ⸻ an earnest attempt at understanding
“The poets leave hell and again behold the stars.” Dante’s Inferno, Dante Alighieri
Through the suggestion of others, I have considered, perhaps, this life is the afterlife. I wonder if this is heaven or hell. I find people often veer towards believing the latter. Regardless of what this life is, I do not consider or entertain the idea of capturing the sort of ‘life’ to come after this one because that assumes our idea of ‘life’ as we know it in this form will continue in succession in a way comprehensible to us. Personally, I find that rather unlikely. Moreover, I find that any attempt to capture the afterlife (as in, the life after the one we are living right now) will result in a circular argument that leads back to an understanding seen only through the version of life we have lived. How naive it would be to believe that all that exists are matters we are familiar with.
So what if this life is hell? There are times when my body, or mind, inch nearer to the ambiguous threshold between life and whatever is not life. One leg in and one leg out, how does one make sense of the agony — the sensation of being punished by way of simply existing? This pain is physical and visceral, no matter the origin of its manifestation. Perhaps where there is gravity, there is hell. For it is all very heavy. It is not the mass but the weight that pushes our bodies down further and further into the depths of what, after all, we may consider hell.
What it is to discover a new level of such pain. The only way in which such a finding is possible is through living it, through surviving it. It is not an experience many would consider most welcome. I, for one, certainly do not wish for the return of this phenomenon. Yet, we move through our days knowing this feeling will eventually consume us once again. We continue our strides forward, finally leaving this pain behind, knowing it will perpetually follow behind us like a shadow, stretching and shrinking as the light and levity come and go, just like so, until we turn our backs to the sun and are forced to confront the darkness before our feet once again.
Now, let us consider, just for a moment, the meager idea that this life is heaven.
Take the clouds struck with sunlight, the quiet of dawn. The moments where you serendipitously wake up facing your bedroom window, and you’ve left the blinds up from the day prior, and catch the sun as it seemingly emerges from the depths of our earth. The light is a cool gold, with strokes of pink upon blue surrounding us. There is this sense of unity as we are all enclosed beneath this omniscient, subtle beauty. What is it to be beautiful? True beauty has the rare tactility to stir that sense of awe and warmth in the space where our left ribs meet our right. True beauty forges a little tide pool in our chests — a delicate, self-sustaining ecosystem. There is peace where the water trickles and newness when the waves rush in, but still, a sense of mystery is retained beneath the surface. We will never know what the true composition of this beauty is. But, I believe this feeling is what we may call allure.
Your eyes slowly bat shut, and your body returns to rest with the knowledge that this beauty lingers in your heart and will permeate your dreams. And so, you thank your body for breath and the pathways of life pushing vitality in and out and in and out. Place your hand on your chest and feel the movement. What a miracle. You are here.
Then there is the matter of Love. I need not explain how Love could only exist in heaven. One must simply feel Love once to find confidence in that knowledge.
It seems all of the things described in the former and present argument are true. How can we begin to reconcile such a thing? I suppose that is a lifelong pursuit. What it is to be. All art is a feeble attempt at trying to capture any inkling of an adequate response. These very words are an example of such. I realize this is barely a satisfactory attempt at answering such a question, but I will continue to chip at this, albeit for the rest of my life (in all likelihood).
Ultimately, there is no purpose to our being here (whatever we discern this ‘here’ to be). We are the product of unlikely, random events, culminating in the result of our birth and, in turn, our remaining. Though we have no purpose, we can derive patterns. The patterns from your life and my life, the lives on this earth that preceded ours, and the ones that will succeed. We have all traversed heaven. We have all traversed hell. Both exist perpendicular to each other — simply turn the corner from one, and you’ll find the other waiting. These are my subjective truths. This is what I know for now.
While I’m here — here are some favorites:
On Possession by Sea Oleena
Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason. Incredibly funny and nuanced novel on mental illness and our relationships to family and intimacy.
Knitting. I’m about to finish my first hand-knit article of clothing (… I am very proud of myself).
London fogs. The caffeine content of coffee has been getting to me, unfortunately.
My cat, Forrest (but he’s always a favorite (obviously)).
Waking up early. I like the intention behind the act.
Youtube video essays. Cheers to perpetual learning on niche subjects brought upon by the Youtube algorithm!
My brother-in-law seeing Paul Mescal at a bar last weekend. Actually, this is not a favorite, but an attempt at exhibiting the level of spite I have for him given that I was not there.
Anywho. Thanks for reading.
Love, Kailie