It is a basic human tendency to assume that we are all somehow different from everyone else; that within each of us lives a unique spark, a hidden secret need or desire that is ours and ours alone. We’re trained from the age of toddlers to think that we’re special; that there’s no one in the whole entire world who is exactly like us. This thought, no matter how buoyant it may make our youthful spirits feel, is simply wrong.
Every one of us has a cup rattling around inside. Some are full, some quite obviously empty. Some have the appearance of fullness but are no more than illusions tailored to fool the unwary. The cup represents our need to be necessary to the world or the universe around us. No more hollow feeling can smite the human soul than the thought that one’s own existence is superfluous and that nobody would notice if you were to simply vanish one day.
For a million cups, there are a million ways to fill them but not all are so obvious. Somewhere a new mother is holding her son for the first time, hot, bright, pink, vital. Her cup will be filled for a while until she begins to realize he no longer needs her. Somewhere a girl is dancing, lithe, enticing, the music pounds in rhythm to her heart. The lights reflect her fraudulent and inviting smile. Her cup is full as long as the eyes of her audience cling to her like barnacles to a storm-tossed ship. As they slip off into the night she feels empty and alone more than ever. Somewhere a man kneels in prayer, his inner voice raised up to a universe attentive, kind, eternal. His cup is filled as long as he can hold his faith in his God. Somewhere a man struts upon a stage, night after night after night as he labors for the love of his fans. The spotlights form a pillory where his weary soul slaves for the adulation of the masses. His cup is full as long as the lights are on.
Somewhere… somewhere a wiser man than all the rest, looks up at the night sky and realizes there doesn’t need to be a cup. That the desire to fill the cup is the source of the sorrow. That the true joy is merely in being alive. That the million pin-pricks in the dome of the night bring a satisfaction more calming and more lasting than any other.
1 comment:
Interesting observation, and very poetically stated. Certainly, life is richer when one savors the moments as they happen and appreciates the joy in merely being alive, the beauty in the everyday. However, I think it’s almost a part of human nature to yearn for a connection with other(s). That’s why bright, shiny objects are ultimately so unsatisfying.
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