It is impossible to write something in a “new” way. If a person hasn’t beaten you to it, then the universe has. To drive this point in further, this itself isn’t a new or original idea. Sarah Kay wrote a spoken word poem revolving around the concept that “the universe has already written the poem you were planning on writing.” We cannot “invent new metaphors” or “discover beauty that hasn’t been discovered yet,” as Kay states. We can attempt to shine a light on what the universe reveals to us, but it will never be original or new. The universe beats us to it everytime.

This isn’t cause for despair, but cause for a reorientation of how we look at the world and at art. Maybe I can tell you, personally, something new, but it will never be actually new, simply something new to you.

Furthermore, we are hardly able to be individual or new in our thinking, or writing for that matter. We are formed by both nature and nurture, meaning that the part formed by nurture can never be "new." We receive our methods of reasoning from parents and teachers, our vocabularies and philosophies from books and films. Attempts at being original or unique are ultimately futile, and our time would be much better spent in trying to unearth the truth and beauty in the world around us, regardless of its novelty.

I’ve felt a tumultuous energy in my soul for quite some time, as if there is evil over my head, and something dark brewing in my heart: the head and the heart, two forces of nature, reason and emotion, both threatening implosion.

This implosion remains inevitable, but I can stave off its rage for a little while longer. I close my eyes. I am wearing a silk scarf around my head; I am old, weathered. I have many wrinkles, lots of worry lines, but smile lines too. I am driving into town; I live in a rural area about a half hour or so from town. I’m alone, but not lonely. When I’m back home, the sun is starting to set. I lay my body in the grass and look straight up. I watch until all the colors fade to black. By this time, I’m tired, a good kind of tired, the kind you feel in your bones.

I open my eyes. A sigh of relief escapes me. I’m laying on the floor of my college dorm, staring at the ceiling, wishing those white panels were stars instead. I’m getting tired, the bad kind of tired, an emotional and mental exhaustion, but my legs won’t stop moving.

I know as I lay there that this perfect future doesn’t exist. We aren’t meant to be “happy” on earth. By “happy,” I mean the mere feeling of happiness, the emotion. We’re not meant to have a long-term sustained feeling of happiness. Whenever I fool myself into thinking that this is an achievable goal, I am let down.

It is okay. Isn’t it enough to be merely content?

When you hear the word “tragedy,” what do you think of? Do you think of sorrow, pain, death? That’s what most people think of, but the Greeks view tragedy differently. If you read any Greek tragedies, it will become clear that they all have a common, unexpected thread; they don’t end in sorrow, pain, and death. Greek tragedies are full of sorrow, pain, and death, but they end in triumph and happiness. Not the feeling of happiness, but a certain contentment, a certain fulfillment. Through these plays, the Greeks fully embody the human experience. We triumph and sorrow; we suffer and we elate. The goal is not to avoid suffering, but to use it to get to the triumph, to happiness, a happiness that will last.

So, suffer. Feel your pain, and know that it is expected, normal, and even welcome.

I hurt people.

There's just no getting around it.

I tried, as much as I was able,

but it's no use; I admit.

I hurt people.

What do I do with all this guilt?

Maybe I should be more gentle.

But isn't it too late? The blood's already spilt.

I hurt people.

Isn't it quite dull,

This fault universal?

This fragile heart should be more careful.

Open the front door.

Go to the bathroom, and look in the mirror.

Rags, a tuxedo outwore.

A formal occasion, lasting a year.

Hair cut with kitchen scissors,

A shoddy attempt to go back to that first... 

You’ll never go back. 

Wash your hands, quench their thirst,

And turn off the faucet. 

Drip...drip...drip.

Beads drowsily dribble from the spigot.

You’ll never go back.

A great gush of water and blood pours forth,

Flooding your once so sturdy body, now filled with holes.

In what might be your last thoughts your mind floods thenceforth,

“Lamentations, Lamentations, Lamentations”

As you succumb to the water, you hear a voice cry out,

“His love is new every morning.”

You awaken throughout,

Permeated, drenched, but breathing.

You place hand in hand.

Socrates believed he had a daimon inside of him,

A guiding spirit.

His mission limned:

Care for the souls of Athens.

399 BCE: Socrates is executed by his fatherland. 

You understand?

Where are you being guided, and by whom? 

The answer lies in your own somnolescent divination, exhumed.