"All I can do is read a book to stay awake,
And it rips my life away but it's a great escape."
-Blind Melon, "No Rain"
And it rips my life away but it's a great escape."
-Blind Melon, "No Rain"
Emerging from my book at the Atlanta airport, I begin a brief, but thoroughly noble, quest for the bathroom and marvel at how jarring reality can be. There I was in a seething mass of humanity with every individual as complex and wrapped up in their own lives as I am. Trying to fit the enormity of that into my head makes my mind rubbery - it's like trying to contemplate the size of the universe or the number of rogue hairs in an old man's ears. If I was a machine I'm sure I'd be spitting out an infinite loop error; and like a machine the only cure is a couple of quick slaps to the head: RESET! Ah, much better.
Back to the point, though: there are moments in every person's life where they realize how truly small they are. Most of the time we are happy to be the center of our own little world, but when faced with a view of the forest some basic questions begin to bother. How does a person make their one life meaningful when everyone else is out to do the same? And who does it have to be meaningful to? Will you be remembered as the person who lived a "full life" and spat out a bunch of babies? The inventor? The philanthropist? The villain? Or, even worse: not remembered at all? The fact we all have to resign ourselves to is that we will die and be forgotten. No one lives forever, neither in memory nor in body, and that's the truth of it. The seasons still pass and the sun will shine on - so what do we do while it happens to be shining on us?
Life in a story is a lie! It's too perfectly encapsulated and purposeful; which is very likely the appeal of them in the first place. So much of life feels like preparation for the big show. The classes and savings, in my mind, are but a groundwork for some untold adventure hidden in the murky future. The problem of life? It has no plot!
Back to the point, though: there are moments in every person's life where they realize how truly small they are. Most of the time we are happy to be the center of our own little world, but when faced with a view of the forest some basic questions begin to bother. How does a person make their one life meaningful when everyone else is out to do the same? And who does it have to be meaningful to? Will you be remembered as the person who lived a "full life" and spat out a bunch of babies? The inventor? The philanthropist? The villain? Or, even worse: not remembered at all? The fact we all have to resign ourselves to is that we will die and be forgotten. No one lives forever, neither in memory nor in body, and that's the truth of it. The seasons still pass and the sun will shine on - so what do we do while it happens to be shining on us?
Life in a story is a lie! It's too perfectly encapsulated and purposeful; which is very likely the appeal of them in the first place. So much of life feels like preparation for the big show. The classes and savings, in my mind, are but a groundwork for some untold adventure hidden in the murky future. The problem of life? It has no plot!
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