Not much to see.
Not much to do.
I know what you’re thinking: “How depressing.”
Of course, I don’t know if that’s what you’re thinking but this form of narrative, one solely emanating from my head (yes, really), isn’t one that lights up the be all you can be airwaves. No, that one, in case you need another example, would suggest that I need to get my sh*t together, draw up another faux list and enjoy myself.
To give meaning to my life?
Possibly but then I’m bound to ask, being ever the contrarian, what’s meaning anyway?
It means we’re here for a purpose?
We have a purpose?
Or to make sure when we finally check out that we can say it was a life well lived?
All of the above and whatever else I’ve left out.
Then again, in case it’s not already obvious, I didn’t ask for this life, still less was my consent sought before I emerged into the world.
If that sounds a bit off then I’m not concerned because it’s true. Like everyone who has ever lived, none of us were there at the very start and asked (which of course is a non-sequitor) if we wanted to be born. I’m certain, from what I’ve witnessed over the course of my life, that a number of people would aver that wish they hadn’t been born.
For me, I know why I’ve arrived at this point, namely, qua humans we’re slowly but surely destroying nature and yet, unless I’m mistaken, very few people want to make the obvious point that absent us — all of us, not a select few — the world would breathe a huge sigh of relief and get on with doing what it does and has done for millions of years. Instead, we’re deep into another consumer craze built atop the notion that having screwed the planet the best we can do is try to undo our mess and make a shed load of money in the process. I find the whole enterprise risible.
In the end, how our end game plays out is not yet certain but I’ve got this unerring suspicion that it might be a lot sooner than the experts would have us believe.