I've always believed in infinites. For a time I lost sight of those infinites, so to speak, instead swimming through oceans of things that disguised themselves as infinites, or felt almost precious to the same degree as an infinite, but not so. Tricky things those things are.
There is a lot in the way that I used to think that I have abandoned and in the rare instance, I stop and think how tragic that could be; That the grand finale to some of these infinites could ever be summarized in so few words. Almost nightmarish if I were to think about it a second longer than I should; which is why I stopped doing that.
I don't know if it exists, because the longer I stick around the more I come to terms with this concept of "I don't know" and "that's life" — it becomes almost dreary if I spend a second longer than I should on that thought as well. So I don't.
What I do know is that you have to make the best of everything you get given; and to me that can't and won't ever come in the form of cheap thrill or fuzzy hoo-ha. There's no comfort in the flesh or the material and it's deeper to me than that, it's always been, and that won't ever change.
I watched the Fault In Our Stars.
Bless John Green. Augustus Waters is everything I could imagine in the infinite. And that's not me saying "aw" or melting at the idea of love; he's a hero. And not in line with Disney or any of that sap, but I think we all search for the Gus in our lives; in our friends, family, and in ourselves. I think finding that may be all of our infinites. I'll keep a tiny candle lit til the day I'm living mine.
"We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything mine in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can't stop pissing on fire hydrants. I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. she walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. She knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism?"