I’m not a serious person at all. The only time I am serious is in writing. I don’t understand how everyone can live knowing all their happiness is a delusion. It’s impossible for me. Funny how everyone tries to be something, something they think important, when it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you die today or in forty years, because some day everything will parish and it will be as if the human race, and everything else, never had even existed.
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True, one day everything will perish, but let’s stop worrying until then.
I’m the same way, only serious in my writing. But when I write it also becomes easier to see the beauty in life and in individuals. I mean, the human race is pretty awesome. Yeah, we suck because we’re killing off the planet but take the good with the bad, right? Tens of thousands of inventions and ideas and we just keep on going, failing hundreds of times but still never giving up. Falling in love and hoping.
I dunno. Maybe I’m just a dreamer.
I guess the only thing to do is to embrace the transience of all things. Couldn’t it be argued that temporary things are worth more than permanent ones, because they are more scarce?
There will only ever be one of you. There will only ever be one today. There will only ever be one life like yours. It might look like any other life. You might look like any other person. Today might seem like any other day. But something is different.