Maybe I’ve had a normal life? But for the last few decades, I’ve thought a lot about why life is pointless.
The Sun and the Earth spinning on their strings from the center of the system. All the other, further starlights joining out there somewhere in orbit, and all of it a just seems like dust on a window from even further away. All of our tiny skeletons marching diligently across the face of it, generation after generation, iteration upon iteration, our genes born from stardust slowly shuffling through bodies into new bodies into babies and into nothingness.
Breeds of life have come and gone, entire ecosystems and societies and endless complexities of beauty and meaning have arisen into being and then disappeared tragically into emptiness. The lifespans of our individual minds can not begin to hold or experience even one drop of the immensity of the world’s experience that has come before us, that has already left into nothingness. We are a tiny sliver of light on the right, and a massive solar system of darkness on the left from before us, a place we can not look at.
There have been just vast sublime oceans of galaxies of living and extinctions. The epic dramas of billions of years beneath the stars blinking on and off. We breath in, we breath out: and yet many of us truly believe in our own self-importance: and in a short moment, we are just gone.
And yet, I guess to an ant mounting a few grains of sugar, the world just seems very immense and beautiful, perhaps.
And so what should you do with your short time in the sunlight? There are as many choices as moments in each billion of lives. And yet somehow seeing this situation makes everything seem somewhat pointless to me. I know that I am the product of the symphony of time and death, and that I carry the beautiful darkness and light of the original pioneers of existence within me. But I don’t care.
I can’t stop thinking: why not just spend your life in bed, comfortable, just dreaming? Is it any different than what happens when you are walking around awake and supposedly alive?
Who is to say one dream is superior to the next? Who is to say one thing is more meaningful than the next, or that anything is meaningful at all?
It seems many people take their life so seriously it is as if they are dreaming: they are dreaming that they are actually real, that they are not the dead just dreaming it is living.
But I don’t pretend to have any answers. These are only guesses about this. And like a frog, I guess I’ll just keep moving on to the next lily pad, until I fall back into the pond, to be devoured by the tadpoles of the future.
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