The burgeoning of an idea seems so very momentous to the generator that he/she gets carried away in the multiple variants of its expression and implementation. There is never the thought that it might just be a personal matter. People wash it, cook it, clean it, bake it, fry it, ornament it and put it out to dry where the winds of the rest of the human minds may see it, touch it, sense it, feel it, taste it, smell it and revel in it…or just as well criticize and pan it.
Well an idea is just that. There is nothing original, momentous or extraordinary about it. Everyone has them. Everyone constructs them. Everyone discards them. There’s nothing grand about having one of them, a million of them or having none at all. It’s all very simple. Life is just the way it is. Each day merges into each night, which in turn merges into the next morning.
We strive so hard to make ourselves indispensable to the ones we love, to the ones we aid, to the ones at our mercy, to the ones whose mercy we rely on, to every goddamn person, thing or event we think is of value. It is all in vain. There is no place for immortality. We can’t live on in the lives of our children… they can’t search for meaning in our lives, or even answers. We each seek our own answers. What we need are the really good questions… Or are they just fanciful ideas?
We strive so hard to make ourselves indispensable to the ones we love, to the ones we aid, to the ones at our mercy, to the ones whose mercy we rely on, to every goddamn person, thing or event we think is of value. It is all in vain. There is no place for immortality. We can’t live on in the lives of our children… they can’t search for meaning in our lives, or even answers. We each seek our own answers. What we need are the really good questions… Or are they just fanciful ideas?
