The holy scripture of humanity

I don't know what I'm writing, but as ink flows on paper, so do words—characters that when arranged together carry meaning, carry life, carry everything and nothing all at once.

My mind suspended between thoughts, floating in a space of nothingness.

Psychology controlling my brain, having a grip on my thoughts—it is beauty. It's art. It's humanity, all in all. It's holy like scripture; only those worthy enough or chosen can access it.

I am grateful to have access to the holy scripture of humanity. The beauty of it. The mental capacity to be able to analyze a person's actions no matter how erratic they are, yet have such deep empathy towards them. The capacity to carry both truths simultaneously, to witness weakness and erraticism, to understand the mechanics of hurt while still feeling its weight.

To feel for everyone.

Even on a personal level—to be able to wake up every day, brew my morning coffee, and as I watch the incense smoke dance upward like prayers made visible, send love to those who hurt me. To whisper forgiveness into the dark spaces they left behind.

Although I trained myself to forget people, to build walls and compartments and neat little boxes where pain goes to die, I still feel.

I still feel everything.

That's the curse and the gift of studying the mind—you understand why people break you, which somehow makes it both easier and harder to carry. You see the childhood wounds driving their adult cruelty. You trace the pattern from their trauma to your pain. You hold the full map of how hurt travels through generations, through relationships, through the small and large violences we commit against each other.

And still, you choose empathy.

Still, you watch the incense smoke curl toward the ceiling and wish them peace.

Because maybe that's what access to the holy scripture really means: not just understanding humanity, but loving it anyway. Loving it fiercely, relentlessly, even when it has given you every reason not to.

Even when forgetting would be so much easier than feeling.

But I was never very good at easy.

So I'll keep brewing my coffee. Keep lighting my incense. Keep holding space for both the analysis and the ache, the psychology and the prayer, the understanding and the hurt that understanding can never fully erase.

I'll keep feeling.

Because someone has to bear witness to all of this—the beauty and the breaking, the weakness and the trying, the hurt and the healing and the space between where most of us live.

And I was chosen for this.

Or maybe I chose it.

Either way, I'm here, holding it all.