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the sublime and the ridiculous

meaningless meaning

By Donna L. Roberts, PhD (Psych Pstuff)Published about a year ago 2 min read
the sublime and the ridiculous
Photo by Dima Wuks on Unsplash

The human heart beats like it’s trying to say something, but the message gets lost in the rhythm, too fast, too slow—always off

We wake up and do it all again, the same, but different, like walking in circles and calling it a journey

Hands grasp at things—objects, people, ideas—like we’re scared of the empty space between, always needing to hold onto something

Laughter echoes in rooms, but it never stays, just bounces off walls until it fades—why doesn’t joy linger like sadness does?

We look in mirrors but never really see ourselves, just flashes, fragments—eyes too tired, mouth too tight, always becoming but never enough

Why do we ask for purpose like it’s a thing that can be handed to us? Like a key to a door we don’t even know how to open

The body aches, but not always in the places you’d expect—sometimes it’s the mind that hurts, too heavy for its cage of bone and skin

We run from pain but trip into it, over and over again, like it’s stitched into the path, like it’s waiting, always waiting

Love feels like a question we don’t know how to answer, or maybe we do but the words taste too strange on the tongue

What is time, really? A straight line, a circle, a tangled mess of thread we keep trying to untangle but it knots itself tighter

We search for meaning in the stars, in books, in each other, but maybe there’s nothing to find, just stories we tell to keep from unraveling

There’s a silence that follows every conversation, thick and full of the things we didn’t say—why do we fear the silence more than the noise?

We smile but sometimes it’s just muscles moving, a mask that fits too well—what would happen if we took it off, even for a moment?

The sky is always out of reach, yet we keep looking up, as if the answers are hidden in the clouds, in the endless stretch of blue

Every breath feels borrowed, like we’re holding onto something fragile, delicate, like the air itself might disappear

And still, we hope—despite everything, despite the weight of it all—we hope, we keep moving forward, like it’s all we know how to do.

Stream of Consciousness

About the Creator

Donna L. Roberts, PhD (Psych Pstuff)

Writer, psychologist and university professor researching media psych, generational studies, human and animal rights, and industrial/organizational psychology

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  • Kenneth cruzabout a year ago

    I always love and appreciate deep profound thoughts like this.

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