Fireworks are such beauty. There always comes a point that you cry silently inside: “Please stay, oh please stay!” But they never do. Next second the beauty turns into a thousand shooting stars. Then the shooting stars turn into nothing. A moment of perfection, cherished with the knowledge of its very short lifespan. Light and color explode to draw the symbol of magnificence in the nightly sky, revealing to human eyes for just a second, to overwhelm their dim, vague, suffering-filled life, then gone.
And we practical human beings, we hold on to it, even know it is only an illusion and won’t last for more than 5 seconds. We spend many thousands of dollars on this celebration, and swarm the beach in millions to watch it, every year.
I find this obsession of beauty and magnificence both pitiful and heartening. This is what we want: a glimpse of the impossible, of a higher existence, of what’s beyond imagination. As long as this persists, there might be hope.
Every person’s life is a failure. What we can do is to make this failure a good story, a story filled with courage, compassion, nobleness.
And about fireworks, who knows? Maybe in that split second, the passing beauty ignited a seed of fire in one person, one child. And the spark will spread through his or her work, shed new light of comfort and joy for this agonizing world.