People live most of their lives in unease.

Even in the best of times, life has all the stability of an erratic heart monitor, a live wire strung between peaks of exhilaration that interrupt the lukewarm dissatisfaction of the every day. We are in constant flux; there is no steady state.

In The Prophet, Khalil Gibran writes, “verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.” To be human is just this, to spend most of your time in the restless space between intermittent stimulations.

This is something all human beings have in common, essentially because we are all from the same template. There are certain components which are common to all of us, by definition of our humanity. These components include the capacity for emotion, basic instinctual drives and an innate desire to know one another. These common aspects allow us to identify with one another, connect with one another, and love one another because we recognize such parts of ourselves in other people. That’s why there is something so poignant about catching a glimpse of someone at their lowest or highest emotional state. Because at that time, it becomes apparent just how malleable—and therefore vulnerable—that person is, and the distinction between the two of you is broken. Both of you are on level playing field and the truth becomes threadbare: that neither is any more or less fragile than the other.

This is one of, if not the most definitive quality of humanness. We are all hopelessly, undeniably vulnerable, despite our efforts to conceal it. Vulnerability is often equated with weakness, and so people are reluctant to be seen as such. But in fact, we are all weak and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Our capacity to feel and the instability of our emotions are what make us different from animals and should not be ignored. These properties are an important part of who we are as a species, and thereby possess a distinctive sacredness.

Our vulnerability binds us in mutuality because it is the one quality which people unequivocally share, and the one truly unique thing we have to call our own.

The moments in which two people acknowledge each other’s vulnerability are the moments in which the general unease of life is broken, and replaced temporarily with a glimmer of congruity. These moments are rare gems in one’s life, but far easier to encounter if you are really looking. For example, sometimes you smile at someone and they smile back at you, except it’s more than a smile; it’s an exchange of energy that at that moment takes precedence over everything else in the world, and calms you absolutely, erasing any doubt in your mind as to the inherent goodness of life. It’s as if the epicenter of life lies behind the other person’s face—the mighty force that drives both of you, and everyone, forward. Then the moment is broken as suddenly as it came, and you and the other person go back to acting like life is incredibly trivial, both thoroughly embarrassed by the possibility of ever having been that open. Maybe the person averts their eyes and fixes their hair, and you check your phone or make some querulous comment that you don’t really mean, just to sound like a normal person. But such a moment is wrought with impressive power, the traces of which do not quickly fade.

Such experiences of emotive human mutuality tend to manifest themselves as concrete proof of the benevolence of life. They are not proof in any scientific or logical sense, but to the individual, they are regarded with absolute sanctity. They are the sole antidote to our characteristic unease.

It is this craving of human mutuality which makes art so effective—why a story or painting is able to move a person. Because art is essentially a simulation of this elusive “oneness” we all crave. It provides people with a direct look into the fragile state of others which they in turn recognize in themselves. Good art evokes a familiarity in the audience that, whether or not they are conscious of it, speaks to the part of them which all people have in common. Although some are oblivious to the deeper reason they enjoy art, by indulging in it they are unknowingly acknowledging the innate vulnerability in every person, even the most guarded of us. Art shows us that when any aspect of existence is expressed in an honest way, people cannot help but respond to it.

Despite the bliss and satisfaction which acute human connection brings to a person, this feeling, of course, is always unsustainable. Our base level of dissatisfaction is always eventually restored, leaving us astounded at the way such perfection was able to fill us and leave us with ease. 

Of course this does not seem fair, that our strongest, most intrinsic desire is also our most unquenchable. But perhaps there is something to be said for the elusiveness of these moments. The experience of even fleeting human concord is so exasperatingly perfect that we cannot help but be moved by it, which certainly seems to explain a lot of human behavior, such as why people insist on associating with each other despite the great pain we have the potential to cause each other. The desire for this harmony alone has incredible power, regardless of whether or not it is achieved. One may argue it forms the very basis of society.

It seems then that the verge of perfection may be even sweeter than perfection itself. Our perpetual unfulfillment (our unease) frustrates us, but also gives life its aesthetic value, its tenderness, its ache and its substance. It sustains us by keeping us in balance and forever on the edge of something great.

A quote from writer Alain de Botton reads, “[f]eeling lost, crazy and desperate belongs to a good life as much as optimism, certainty and reason.” Through all the ups and downs, life is one jubilant explosion of discord, and really, would you want it any other way?

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Author: Rachel O’Connor

Editor: Caroline Beaton

Image: Author’s own