In the void of infinite choices…space dust we are.
We really have no idea how many choices we have, circles within circles. Action and consequences leading to action leading to…space dust.
So what to do?
I just spent the last fifteen minutes debating on whether I should get a coffee or not (I picked a red bull).
What does it matter? Nihilism or blissful ignorance…if we’re all ending up in the same pile? Why morality or a lack of it? Why debate?
Futility. Stoicism. The balance. Space dust.
Play the game, to the best of your ability, knowing the game is rigged because Nature is rigged, because there is no such thing as the idea of rigged or fairness or justice or winning or losing. We invent those things, we humans. We skin bags, made of space dust. Who are we? We are what we never ever wish to know.
I hold a slice of lemon between my fingers in a way I’ve never done before, and maybe that’s the answer. New ways, more careful ways. It’s worked for me so far. Think before you speak. When’s that happened last and best for me? Ever? Carefully. Cautiously. Continuously. Lovingly. I quietly sip my tea while the people of this city burn slowly and agonizingly in a pool of blood and oil, waiting for my turn to burn slow and agonizingly in a pool of the same. Is that cruel? Is that cowardice? Not joy and not pain that I feel but EXPERIENCING these emotions, all of these emotions, with the proper Stoicism and stoic calm–that is the answer. Not a not-action but not indifference. I cry as you cry. And I am a writer to boot. What a wonderful world this is.
Save for this Lit Adj…
And as I reached this conclusion, as I stepped to my table to serve them (since I will always serve them, even after I quit my job here at the pizzeria), I felt their laughter press on my heart, my face molding into a smile like theirs, and we were one–I was simply an instrument.
But how long before my ego returns? This veil is there and it is already tearing…how long before my pride or guilt tear it off its rod? How long before everything is just as what it was before? Not long. So enjoy it now. The gleam of hope and hunger in their eyes as I bring their food. And a million other Wrightian spectacles written literarily.
But for now, this bliss holds in my heart. Thick like honey, sticky to my eyes and smile. I feel it coat me, not to protect me but to help me, taste me.
Like Aurelius said, it’s their game, their style. No one is to blame. No one.
So I play on. I am the tortoise. Not the hare.
This is bliss. This is God. This is fulfillment. This is returning back to Eden. Past the opposites. I have to watch Campbell again. I must. He holds the key.
Such careless, quick lives we live. No wonder our bodies react by stopping our minds with fear and anxiety, stopping our bodies sore with tension and tightness, and stopping our souls stopped with disease and early death. Better to leave, I guess. Quality of life, though.
I must go now. Remember what church taught you. Not the concept, but the building itself. That is all you can do.
(Because life is too short, it really is. Mistake or miracle, we are here, living it.)