What motivates us? So much constantly happens in this world. It's hard to find a moment of tranquility, a moment of nothingness that would allow an escape from the busyness of the world. The existing chaos is inherently embedded in the environment that surrounds me. How often can we identify a single reason behind an action? Every choice is tied to a thousand choices we've made, and a thousand more that have yet to actualize. Hardly anything is ever truly and completely insignificant. Something comes out of everything. So, what is it? What makes me study, write, love, hate? There's fear, there's hope, there's time, and ability. And there's more. Which is the strongest? It's not an unwillingness to admit it, but a true difficulty in clarification. How much does it take? We try to make sense of situations with logic and reasoning, yet, remain subject to emotions. Despite lacking tangibility, these have enormous power and strength. These impulses, I would say, have the most influence on us. I can spend hours deliberating something as simple as choosing a song to purchase, ultimately buying nothing at all. When motivated by something less explainable, somehow I could purchase an album from an artist I'd never heard of. Action comes much faster. In terms of time, at least, emotion is more efficient and effective, although it wouldn't make sense to others. It'd be impossible to force someone to understand my feelings, because no thought process exists, really. There's nothing to explain. The same abstract nature, though, makes these appeals all the more compelling. Paradoxically, they seem unrefutable. Having arisen in the absence of facts, they cannot be torn down by facts. What keeps us from quitting? A fundamental difference remains between this question and the first. The reasoning behind staying in a situation is consistent. Always fear, of the unknown, unsure, and variations of this concept. So again, how much does it take? The emotions here often counteract each other. They don't act suddenly; instead, they persist until you've made a choice that satisfies them all, or until one's importance diminishes. After much consideration, I've decided to quit tennis. I've played for 8 years. My parents spent a lot on lessons, and I'd intended to keep the class through high school. I enjoy playing, and the exercise is beneficial, but rarely do I get it. I'm not particularly good, I don't have friends in that class, and the class is unstructured. These factors mean I rarely play during class, especially recently. With that, my coach, who already tends to be insensitive and derogatory, doesn't like me. There's an element of hatred, usually neutralized by some enjoyment. That neutrality--you'd imagine these issues'd cancel out, subsequently being resolved, when the turmoil has become completely unsatisfiable. There's judgment. We'll never be able to do anything in isolation; others' opinions often hold more prominence than our own do. And of course, there's the immensity of the unknown. Familiarity, that really promises nothing, is appealing purely because it's certain. With this mindset, if pain is certain, at least you've been exposed to it, you know how to manage it. It might be worse elsewhere. This reasoning, this is where comfort becomes dangerous. How much, then, does it take to quit everything? Suicide. The 11th leading cause of all deaths in America, which doesn't even rank in the top quarter of countries by suicide rates. Even more frighteningly, attempts are an estimated 20 times that of completed suicides. It is when the value of life seems destroyed by suffering, when all opportunity for recovery seems extinguished, when such little happiness in existence makes oblivion seems more appealing, when life seems incapable of yielding further joy, when breathing seems a strenuous responsibility, when no one stops you, that you welcome the apparent promise of nothingness of death. And that happens all too often. A willingness to give up life means that everything, everything was worth less than nothing. Even if somehow the one day were erased, all the emptiness, which devours until it leaves a mere shell, would remain. But reality is distorted. How can you recognize worth when your own mind is suffocating? Whose responsibility is it? How much can bystanders do?How much can we possibly expect them to say to our faces? Can you tell? It's always obvious afterward. It hurts to remember. Because every time we think of them, we think of how little we'd done. We've let these people slip right through our fingers, right in front of our eyes. They were made of glass, we took a glance at the cracks, and mistook them for design. Without understanding their fragility, we brush them away. Each time I think of his smile, I forget, for a moment. The moment passes. And I fall apart. Coming back to reality when someone else can't, is painfully startling. Could I have saved him? No, honestly. Was it his freedom, or was it murder?