What Makes Us Human: Love, Loss, and Letting Go

What makes us human? Is it your body?

Or the fact that you think, and feel?

Are you human because you experience loss, because life is terminal and finite?

Because you are imperfect?

Because you still search for meaning, for purpose, for love, even knowing it will one day end?

I’ve been on a spiritual journey for some time now, slowly learning to let go. I won’t pretend I’ve got it all figured out, detachment is still something I’m working on. But that’s not what I want to expand on here.

Right now, while I write this, I want to find myself between the pages, the ones I once doodled on, where I left behind scattered words. A place where you and I will always be together.

I am an observer now. A feeler.

Someone trying to understand love in all its complexity.

From this vantage point, I can see how deeply I loved. How fiercely loyal I was.

From here, I’ve tried to make sense of the pain.

Once, I gave all the love I had, heart wide open, full of hopes and silent wishes, even when it was misunderstood, or never fully returned.

I’ve come to see how fragile we are.

Physically. Emotionally.

How easily we surround ourselves with people who seem to hold our well-being in their hands, who promise to fix us, even if only for a while. Especially when we’re still avoiding the parts of ourselves we haven’t yet accepted.

I once sat with someone in his pain.

Poured my love and devotion into his wounds, despite the lack of presence or consistency.

Tried to fix a pain that perhaps was never mine to fix.

And in doing so, I found myself navigating the depths of emotion, mine and his.

Can loving someone give life meaning?

Maybe only for a little while.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe our purpose is to love, even when we’re left behind.

No grand farewells.

No epic closure.

Just forgotten and faded out from someone else’s story.

Perhaps we find meaning in faith.

In ourselves.

In the belief that we served our purpose well, even with all our errors and imperfections.

And perhaps the truest question is this:

Can we, as humans, truly recognise the worth of love, when it’s given freely?

For you. And for Kazuo Ishiguro.