In ‘Move’, I wrote the axiom of “To live is to move, by line of sight or point of spear”. Be it reason or belief, I refuse to remain static. For the past few days, I’ve been sick with a burning heart– one that’ll be sated today.
Our lives are a reflection of choices. Quite frankly, everything we do can be predicted. In the grand scheme of life, the fact that we can foretell the outcomes of our choice is a bleak fact– rendering our actions futile. Which one of us would resign ourselves to living a life that isn’t theirs?
It gives off the illusion that we’re chess pieces on the board, whose paths are easily defined– all of our moves being certain. While a person may deny this and claim to live their lives without fear, is that not a choice in itself? You’d be surprised by all of those little acts being part of the rope that moves us.
So, what good is living if our meaning wasn’t determined by ourselves? A person’s meaning is cultivated by what they’ve done with their lives. Yet if nothing was under our control, is that definition our own or one forced on by another– was it all a lie?
No, as the breath I took in is my own. The feeling of the grass caressing my soles is mine. What I feel is unique, just like my lucid sanity. I may be stuck in my path, but I can’t be trapped within my own thoughts.
This game of chess may exist, in which our lives have already been mapped– but we aren’t the players this time. We are the pieces, our vision limited by our positions. The only moves I can see are my own, so I can’t see this truth from within the board itself.
But, those of you who’ve already given up– I must ask. Where has your flame gone? Where is the rebellious torch that humanity holds? Accepting this incomplete truth is one thing, but to submit to a shard? A sin twofold, a transgression against man and Heaven alike.
Blessed are the ones whose minds are too small, for doubt to cloud their eyes. Yet, all I see is a curse. It’s too early for us to succumb to mediocrity. Open your eyes lest life closes them for the last time.
People have an idea on the consequences of their choice, but they forget that their idea is just that. It isn’t the truth, but we weigh it all the same. Our scale is supposed to be an objective one, but it’s flawed by design. We are subjective beings, so it’s only bound to fall eventually.
What makes it even more ironic, is that this scale was meant to advise us– instead it replaced our eyes. People tend to fall when they don’t look down. When this scale breaks, can we even see our fall?
I can’t trust my own knowledge, so I’ll live my life ignorantly. A chess piece may know its own position, but it doesn’t know the game it exists in. My path may be fixed, but every sensation that touches my marrow is bound to me.
My path may be a futile one, but I can’t write it off yet– this game hasn’t ended yet. In the past, I wrote inaction as a choice, but I’ve been remiss. It is the grave of potential, where hypotheticals go to rest.
The crossroads that force our hands also serve as our defining moments. Not every choice is equal. Some choices change the taste of your toast, yet others change your image forever. You could be a hero or a bastard in a single spade.
By shying away from these moments, I’ve branded myself with cowardice– to be insubordinate to myself. And so the question becomes; “Who defines my life if I abscond from it?”
I don’t have an answer for this one, since it’s an “if”– one that I’ll never make. I can’t run from myself and I’ve already done enough to sever any escape paths.
The meaning of my life is defined by me alone. While these branches may not be fashioned by my hand, do I still not walk on them? Just as land is ownerless until it is claimed, I claim my path as my own.
I have an entire lifetime to sear my imprint onto this path, to develop myself without stopping. I may give and take, but I can’t cede.
Now that– that is a man’s romance. To struggle, to journey across the lands, to live a life worthy of living to begin with.
Our lives may be mapped out, but we are the ones who determine our own worth. It is us who are responsible for cultivating this essence, to draw it out from life and turn it into our existence. It may be something mundane like our way of breathing or from our experiences that affirm or deny certain thoughts.
A person has different values, and those values shall make them or break them. I think of them like a path of runes inscribed onto our paths, a shared one splintered off into individual manifestations. If you rip a musical script, do you not spite the maestros who’ve dedicated themselves to playing that art?
They may not care for that particular sheet, but it’s still music– elevating this issue entirely.
When we have our own thoughts on these concepts and ideas, it is our interpretation– our contribution towards it. It is the consensus of all of our thoughts that creates the concept itself. From the moment we gave our thoughts to it, we became bound to this concept– to defend and uphold it.
Some of us may scoff at concepts like Honor, but their runes are written in history. Be it Kingdom, Empire, Sultanate, Nation– every figure enshrined is known by this virtue amongst their other traits. These men have walked far in their lives with this trait, but I don’t walk this road to imitate these men.
I am a man bound by himself, tethered to his own integrity. I won’t pretend and liken my integrity to theirs, it’d be an insult. Yet that little resolve alone is enough to justify my honor. We’re to be buried in the same coffin, so don’t think you’ll find me living without it.
I’m a bit old-fashioned when it comes to honor, but the present remains close to this branch of honor. On the other side of this tree, some of us have reinterpreted honor– to the point that it risks falling off entirely. Either way, if a person’s lack of honor is that egregious– then we’d still be in consensus.
I don’t know what runes shall be inscribed onto my tombstone, but I know what I’m going to write onto this path of mine.
My life is one that’s stuck in limbo, between bleakness and vibrancy. It’s a bit disorienting since I can’t ponder on my emotions, lest I get caught on them. Nor can I lie to myself and ignore the monochromic layers of my life.
Instead, I’m going to live like a contradiction. To have the eyes of a romantic– one that seeks colour from the darkest of dusks and polarity from rainbows. It doesn’t matter how bleak my life gets, I’ll relish it nonetheless as my heart’s flame wants to burn– let my life be a tribute to it.
To act like a stoic, to restrain my desires and control what I hold in my hand– to create my own systems. Whether I go blind or not from these colours, my flame isn’t one to flicker and fizzle. It may always burn, but it’ll only blaze a few times.
If I’m going to burn, then let this tinder be the start of an inferno– one worthy of these eyes. If not, then let this flame remain in its brazier– burning without end.
Living is just as hard as dying, so it’d be better for us all to recognize that.
To live is an act of rebellion against a world that gravitates towards death, a never-ending war. For me, dragging my ideals into reality is a win condition. At the same time, we are fragile beings– it’s far too easy for me to get an early grave.
How many Sons of Liberty died within the past two centuries? Did they not have flames of their own, flames that were extinguished to defeat an evil? They could’ve burnt so much more, yet they drowned in these tides.
History records life and death in the same breath. When we look at the ambition of those enshrined in history, the countless men who realized it remain unnamed. It’s a pity how we only care to look when it’s still burning, conveniently forgetting the rest.
So, my ideals aren’t my only win condition. If I look at life with a cynical lens, then victory is also an idea. While there’s much in my life that’s uncertain, my death is guaranteed. But, I don’t live to win– it’s more of a wish for me to try. To fight and survive is enough for me to burn bright.
If I can win by dragging my ideas into life, then I can smile on my way out. If I don’t, then it’s fine. The reason why I live isn’t to win, it’s to live. I’m sure that I’ll be proud of something by living this life of romance– and I can take that experience beyond my grave.
I’ve read tales of Jianghu romance, the myths and legends that rise from the East. Men whose blood boiled at the slightest injustice and bonded over that very blood. Their words remain as timeless as ever, a cold heart with scalding blood.
I’ve sat with the stories of the men of the past; presidents, kings, ministers and of the common man– the West’s finest. An ambition that covered the sky, men who went beyond their times. The standard-bearers of eras long-passed, whose effects lasted as long as their story.
It doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not, my thirst for it suffices.
If I am to live, then let me try to touch these skies that I’ve seen with words. Be it tragic or heroic, I refuse to not leave a story behind for myself. I may not win, but who knows what this life shall bring? It’s a bit ironic writing this, but let’s see if I can live up to the romance I’ve read about.
To live is to move, by line of sight or point of spear– to move without taking a single step back. Until my burial rites are read, what’s mine is mine.
Author’s note: This was supposed to be an easy essay, but here I am a week later when I thought it’d take me two days. I had to rewrite this essay since it was noise, not music– too many systems and metaphors conflicting with each other.
I named this essay ‘Romance’ due to it being influenced by romanticism and the passion I wrote in this. Sorry to disappoint, but it’s not the romance you thought you’d be reading.
Before love got added to this equation, romance was the pursuit of ideals– the way men lived their lives. It’s relatively recent that it became synonymous with love itself. I do have an essay on that, but I’m not going to publish it now. It’s my Reynolds Pamphlet when it comes to love itself, and I’d be damned if I let someone else explain.
Jianghu is a Chinese term that you’ll find in Wuxia and Xiania fiction. It refers to a society of those who fight. It’s similar to samurai and knights’ way of life, except it’s more hidden. It’s niche but what can I say, it fits my hand.
My initial goal when I started writing was to simply add the line “… to move without taking a single step back.” to my axiom. Instead, I wrote more– and I’m proud of that. At the same time, I have to apologize. I wrote a bit too much for me to call this a short essay.
It’s time to wrap this up, and so– as always, congratulations on reaching the end of this essay.