Family

Family 

How does one reconcile the happiest day of their life — the day they dreamed of as a child, the day their entire understanding of God, of faith, of family, revolves around — with the crushing aftermath that follows? That day, so profound, so blessed, so holy… it was the altar of all you believed in: that two souls uniting becomes family, that love is sacred, that from union comes life itself. Without that union, there is no family. Without that devotion, there is no path to the divine, no tether between souls that can endure the storms of existence.

And yet, that day became my greatest regret. The heaviest sorrow I carry. I have never wished so fiercely for something to never have happened. And in that contradiction — to love so fully, to dedicate your heart so completely, only to have it shattered — there lies a pain that defies measure, a wound that no passage of time can close.

How do you look at the one who both gave it to you and destroyed it? The one who handed you the source of your deepest joy, your most divine connection, only to tear it apart with a smirk? How does one even begin to grapple with that?

How entitled must a person be — so entitled to the concept of love, to the ownership of another’s heart — to treat it so cheaply, to discard it as if it were nothing? Or is it that they prefer the shallow current of connection, the surface of affection, so as not to be swept into the undercurrent of true, profound love? But if life is not about that current — if life is not about being pulled toward the divine through marriage, through union, through the creation of family — then what is it? And if there is no other way to forge family in this world except through the union of two souls into one, then all families come from two. All creation stems from that sacred bond.

Who is so indulgent, so luxurious in life, that they can lose people to death — people who never wished to leave — lose their connection of love in this realm, and yet toss aside the living for the superficial? And do not tell me it is not superficial. I guarantee you, in any new relationship, in years not yet tested, the hidden parts of oneself — the darkness, the grungy, the truths locked away — remain unseen. It is only in the current of true union that one is exposed, fully, in vulnerability, in shadow, in the raw and sacred entirety of the self. If you cannot reveal yourself without reservation, without fear, without hindrance, then you are playing at superficiality. You are not in the river of love. You are not touching the divine. If any part of you is hidden, do not fool yourself — it is not love. It is a masquerade.

And yet people say, “Give it time. Give it space. Something will resolve itself.”

But I refuse that. I do not want it to resolve. Resolution is only a trap — a stage set for further disappointment, a quiet betrayal of memory and intensity.

And when people say, “Time heals all things,” or “Just give it some time,” do they not realize that time is finite? Not everlasting — not for us, not for humans. People act as though the span of their lives is infinite, that they can squander moments without consequence, and telling someone give it time exposes a naivety so profound it borders on cruelty. Time is not ours to waste. It is not ours to gamble.

Time is too precious to waste on waiting.

Too sacred to gamble on illusions of endless tomorrows.

Because one day, tomorrow runs out.