Tell me something, what does forever mean to you? Does anything ever last forever? Does your ‘forever’ last forever? If so, how long is that? Surely it’s not going to last until your dying breath, is it? How is it that each time we promise a forever, a part of us knows about the terms and conditions that come attached with? Unconditionality of a forever is a utopian façade, imagined into reality by our insecure and scared minds. We tend to believe that things are bound to last, people are meant to stay and relationships definitely flourish for as long as our forever entails them to.
It’s rather silly, to be honest. How many chances have you given to that friend of yours, hoping that their last fuck-up was the last one? How many breakups have you been through that were truly mutual? We’ve all believed in a plethora of excuses, wrapped in make-believe reasonability. I’ve done it too, more times than I can even recall. While it’s beautiful to believe and dream of a forever, I have come up with a new realistic theory. I call it, “the theory of phases”. As you might have guessed by now, it revolves around the only uncertainty that my brain can seemingly accept: Everything that happens to you is merely a phase. So this makes life a long account of multiple phases sewn together like the billion basepairs found in your genome. Every second you feel, every emotion you endure constitutes a phase which, by extension, makes all of your relationships with other humans/ objects, nothing but a phase as well.
While my theory sounds like it’s the most obvious thing you’ve read today, is it really that obvious? Because the flaw here is our ability to recollect phases and strive to relive them. You see, by the very virtue of their existence, phases are supposed to come and go, without a trace of messy residuals. But when we love, connect to or hurt a person, we feel varied emotions every single time we think of them. They consume us, overpowering the short lives of our lived moments and mess up this comforting theory of phases. We get stuck. Like that little silkworm trying to break through its cocoon, only to realize that its life actually ends with being put in boiling water to loosen up its silky creation. We don’t care about the worm, we just want the silk. Just like we don’t care about moving past the phases, we just want what we’ve already lost.
Of course the difference here is, if the worm had a choice, we wouldn’t get the silk but when we have a choice with our lives, the comfort of past and familiarity is so overwhelming that we don’t want to break out of the miserable cocoons that we’ve spun for decades. This inevitably leads to us waking up in our own pot boiling water, usually after most of our life has already been lived for someone else. I’ve recently realized that most people you meet are supposed to be phases. They’re supposed to serve a particular purpose, teach a particular lesson and move on. But when you keep throwing chances around, you mess with the natural course of growing and gradually end up becoming your own nemesis. So even though it seems difficult at first to let go of phases, especially the delusional “happy” ones, you need to realize that each phase requires an end for the next one to begin. The more you keep spinning a cocoon around yourself, the harder reality will hit you when the time to take down your adhesive wall finally arrives.
Never forget the two golden axioms: The only certainty in life is the uncertainty of it and the only truth about forever is the non-existence of it.