Tuesday, July 10, 2012


I realize the world depends upon people who do things.  And it’s obvious to me that happiness is essentially a by-product of setting goals and working towards them.  I also am aware of the fact that when I act like a slug I feel like a slug, and generally end up being disappointed with myself for failing to make more meaningful contributions to the world and all the people and animals in it.

That said, it’s nevertheless increasingly difficult to give a damn, especially as one realizes that really, it’s all just froth, and of course, just sound and fury signifying nothing as we caper about, strutting and preening on the world’s stage.

Besides, all this is just illusion: ephemeral, transitory, and impermanent; no matter what we do, it’s all going to be forgotten in a few generations at best, and even if it lasts longer than that, cosmology, geology, and even anthropology will scoff at our pretensions.

Perhaps this doesn’t matter; after all, all we’ve got is all we’ve got.  Just because the earth will be charred to a cinder in a couple billion years doesn’t mean that our few decades on the planet are meaningless, at least when observed from the vantage point of the lives we might potentially make a difference to.

And even if the human race has pretty much gone extinct in a couple hundred thousand years, that doesn’t make our individual lives pointless, although granted, it certainly puts the decision to attempt writing another book or developing a new class in a different context.

Imagine the greatest people who ever lived: your Jesuses, Gandhis, F. Scott Fitzgeralds.  Had they been as lackadaisical about accomplishment as I am, would the world be as rich and meaningful place as now?

Perhaps not, but who knows?  Maybe things would be better, although what “better” means in long-term is open to inquiry.

Or the world without me: exactly the same, except for these 327 words.


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