Beauty Of Impermanence

slipping through fingers like grains of sand- love, joy, & life.

"Everything passes away—suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence. The sword will pass away too, but the stars will remain when the shadow of our presence and our deeds is gone from the earth. There is no man who does not know that." —Mikhail Bulgakov

There is a tender ache in knowing that all things must end. Joy, love, and life itself slip through our fingers like sun-warmed sand on a windswept beach, its grains escaping into the gusts as though carried by unseen hands. No matter how tightly we hold on, we are left with only the faint heat pressed into our palms—a fleeting echo of what was. The grains escape, caught in a current beyond our grasp, and we are left with only their warmth pressed into our palms—a fleeting reminder of what was. And yet, it is this transience that lends them their brilliance, like stars burning their brightest just before they fade.

Consider the sun’s final descent, spilling hues of gold and crimson across the sky. Like a fleeting promise, it reminds us that the most beautiful moments are those we cannot keep—moments that linger just long enough to touch something deep within us, resonating with the universal ache of holding on to what must inevitably slip away. It is a moment that sears itself into memory—not because it endures, but because it vanishes. "These things are beautiful because you know they are doomed," wrote Richard Kadrey. If the sun lingered forever at the horizon, would we still pause to marvel? Or is it the quiet inevitability of its retreat that compels us to stop and stare?

Love, too, is marked by its impermanence. It arrives without warning, unfurling like the first bloom of spring, and departs just as swiftly, leaving behind the faint perfume of what once was. We trace the contours of past affections like fingertips brushing the spines of well-worn books—dog-eared, weathered, cherished. Each book holds its own story, a lesson etched into its pages, a reflection of the love that once was. These spines are not just markers of time but echoes of the chapters we have lived, the ones that shaped us, even as we turned the final page. "To love at all is to be vulnerable," C.S. Lewis wrote, and yet we love anyway. We love because, no matter how fleeting, it carves meaning into the depths of our existence. A stolen glance, a whispered confession, a touch that lingers too long—these moments are luminous precisely because we know they cannot last.

Grief follows love like a shadow, heavy but not without purpose. Like a shadow, it clings to us, shifting with the light of our days, a quiet companion that teaches us to see what we have lost more clearly. It obscures at first, casting darkness over our joy, but over time, it becomes a softer presence, a reminder of depth and the love that gave it shape. It is the echo of a heart that dared to feel deeply. Over time, grief softens from a raw, jagged wound to a quiet, persistent ache—a reminder of what was and what remains. "The deepest wounds often leave behind the brightest lessons," someone once observed, and perhaps this is the paradox of loss: it cracks us open, but in that breaking, we are remade. Grief teaches us that endings are not failures but the cost of truly living.

Life itself is the ultimate lesson in impermanence. Each breath is a disappearing act, each heartbeat a moment slipping past, reminding us to awaken to the present. To feel the rise and fall of our chest, to listen to the rhythm of life within us, is to grasp the fleeting miracle of simply being here, now. To live fully is to live with the awareness of our finitude. Yet, this awareness is not a weight to bear but a call to awaken. It urges us to notice the quiet miracles: the scent of rain on dry earth, the laughter of strangers, the first light of dawn spilling through the blinds. These moments shimmer because they are fleeting, like fireflies dancing in the dark.

The Japanese concept of "mono no aware," a deep sensitivity to the ephemerality of things, captures this truth. It reminds us that beauty is not in permanence but in the fleeting, in the gentle melancholy of things passing away. Cherry blossoms, with their brief, brilliant bloom, are not mourned for their shortness but celebrated because of it. Like a fleeting melody, their beauty lingers just long enough to remind us of the fragility of all things we hold dear. Standing beneath their cascade, we are both awed and humbled, reminded of the countless fleeting moments in our own lives that pass too quickly but leave their mark forever. Their beauty lies in their transience, reminding us that life is most vibrant at its edges, where it is most fragile.

What do we do with the knowledge that all things must end? Perhaps we let go of resistance. Perhaps we learn to love the sunset not despite its descent but because of it. "Try to learn to let what is unfair teach you," wrote David Foster Wallace. In surrender, there is wisdom. In acceptance, there is peace. Impermanence is not a force to battle but a truth to embrace.

Ultimately, impermanence is the thread that weaves life’s tapestry, giving depth and resonance to every fleeting moment and shaping the narrative of our existence with both its losses and its gifts. The closing of one chapter allows another to begin. The last note of a song lingers in our minds precisely because it fades. The final page of a book stays with us, not in its permanence but in its closing.

Let us, then, live as though each moment is a spark, burning bright and brief. Let us hold love with reverence, marveling at its fragility. Let us meet grief with open arms, knowing it is the proof of lives intertwined. And let us find, in every ending, the quiet courage to begin again.

Until next time, love;

Mukta <3

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Song of choice to tie this all together, this song has been close to my heart since years, enjoy—

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