"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." — George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four
Life is a gift — whether we like it or not.
And yet, there's a lingering sense of emptiness: "Is this it?"
Or at least that's how I feel and not just when I'm hit by another hazy funk, black dog or existential reexamination.
Perhaps a better question might be:
what's it (life) all about?
Living up to an ideal?
Being comfortable in our own skin?
Perhaps there is no settled state: first this, then that.
Who really knows?
In the end, all we can do is all we can do and if that means we shoot for the stars (as misguided as that might, in hindsight, appear), then so be it. Arguably it's no one's business, right!
The problem is when someone says the journey, not the destination (i.e. our eventual demise?) is the main event, it sure would be nice, once in a while, to have a better map than the one that's been foisted on us by the neoliberal elite or whoever it is that will one day have to answer for this growth-obsessed world.
Have a fantastic day.