Life
Life is weird, isn't it?
I mean, the concept of life and what it's all for... it's just strange.
My mum has always said that although she isn't religious, she does believe that our time on this Earth is mapped out from the moment we're born. In her eyes, the time and manner of our departure is already decided and there is no changing it. A fixed point, if you will.
So if that's true, then that means we've all got a set amount of time in which to be born, grow up, learn, form relationships and worry about the trivial before everything just... stops. When I think of it that way, all of those little things in between the beginning and the end just seem ever so slightly less important.
For example: I fancy a coffee. I put the kettle on, put some sugar and (instant) coffee powder into a mug, then I open the fridge and holy crap, there's no more milk. I can't have a coffee without milk, but now I'll have to go to the shop to get more milk if I still want a coffee.
There was a time when a slight inconvenience like this would potentially put a downer on my whole day, but now I realise how petty it really is. That's just one little thing to happen on one day in one of 7 billion lives on Earth, which inhabits just one tiny corner of the universe. Of all the things that are happening simultaneously in the goodness-knows how many lives that must be out there, how could I ever dare to think that anything going in mine is anywhere near important?
Over the last couple of weeks, I've been taking more notice of trees when I've been out and about. I often forget that most of them were on this Earth and already getting old before I was even born, and they'll most likely still be here long after I'm gone. They've watched the world go by and change in ways I couldn't even begin to imagine, which is purely incredible in ways I couldn't even begin to top. Words can't even justify it.
Maybe that's why history fascinates me so much. I'm often captivated by the idea that, for example, the bedroom I'm sitting in once belonged to a stranger who is probably gone now. Years before that, the building I call a home was part of a workshop, used by workers who are gone now. Years prior to that, the building didn't even exist, and the area was just an empty stretch of land. And I know that years from now, someone else will call this bedroom their own - that's if it's still here - and the thought that the walls used to hold my photos wouldn't even cross their mind.
Putting things into context like that has led to the realisation that everything I do and say and think in my life is ultimately so insignificant. There'll come a day when I won't be here to drink coffee anymore, so fretting about something like that now is pointless.
The same goes for money and possessions. We do all this worrying about whether we own the latest gadgets or whether our houses are decorated nicely, but what's the point? We can't take it all with us. In fact, when we go, everything that we had and everything that we were will be packed away into a pile of boxes or black sacks and that'll be it. We might leave behind memories in the minds of our loved ones, but even those will fade out of existence once they leave this world.
The meaning of life is something we're most likely never going to understand, so the idea is that we just accept that we are here and try to live life to the full while we have the chance. And that's what the majority of us do. We do the best with what we have. We laugh with friends and family. We spend our days going to school and then to work so we can try and make something of ourselves. We complain about the weather and moan about that jobsworth at the bank. We love and we hate, we feel joy and we feel pain. We see others come and go who might have an effect on our lives, while we have an effect on theirs too. We establish ourselves as individuals and embrace how each and every one of us is unique.
But we forget that we will all end up the same way at some point.
The other day I was hit by the idea that there will come a time when I'm nothing more than a lifeless shell of skin and bones and everything I might have done or achieved (or not achieved) in my time will all be for nothing.
So... what is the point? What is the point of the stress or the wondering, the happiness or the worrying, the suffering or the pleasures of life when it's all just going to be ripped away from us eventually anyway? There must be a reason for it, because what is the point in being born just to die again?
Maybe that's just it - maybe there is no point to it. Life is like a lot of silly, little things in this world: no one knows why it's there. It just is.
I mean, the concept of life and what it's all for... it's just strange.
My mum has always said that although she isn't religious, she does believe that our time on this Earth is mapped out from the moment we're born. In her eyes, the time and manner of our departure is already decided and there is no changing it. A fixed point, if you will.
So if that's true, then that means we've all got a set amount of time in which to be born, grow up, learn, form relationships and worry about the trivial before everything just... stops. When I think of it that way, all of those little things in between the beginning and the end just seem ever so slightly less important.
For example: I fancy a coffee. I put the kettle on, put some sugar and (instant) coffee powder into a mug, then I open the fridge and holy crap, there's no more milk. I can't have a coffee without milk, but now I'll have to go to the shop to get more milk if I still want a coffee.
There was a time when a slight inconvenience like this would potentially put a downer on my whole day, but now I realise how petty it really is. That's just one little thing to happen on one day in one of 7 billion lives on Earth, which inhabits just one tiny corner of the universe. Of all the things that are happening simultaneously in the goodness-knows how many lives that must be out there, how could I ever dare to think that anything going in mine is anywhere near important?
Over the last couple of weeks, I've been taking more notice of trees when I've been out and about. I often forget that most of them were on this Earth and already getting old before I was even born, and they'll most likely still be here long after I'm gone. They've watched the world go by and change in ways I couldn't even begin to imagine, which is purely incredible in ways I couldn't even begin to top. Words can't even justify it.
Maybe that's why history fascinates me so much. I'm often captivated by the idea that, for example, the bedroom I'm sitting in once belonged to a stranger who is probably gone now. Years before that, the building I call a home was part of a workshop, used by workers who are gone now. Years prior to that, the building didn't even exist, and the area was just an empty stretch of land. And I know that years from now, someone else will call this bedroom their own - that's if it's still here - and the thought that the walls used to hold my photos wouldn't even cross their mind.
Putting things into context like that has led to the realisation that everything I do and say and think in my life is ultimately so insignificant. There'll come a day when I won't be here to drink coffee anymore, so fretting about something like that now is pointless.
The same goes for money and possessions. We do all this worrying about whether we own the latest gadgets or whether our houses are decorated nicely, but what's the point? We can't take it all with us. In fact, when we go, everything that we had and everything that we were will be packed away into a pile of boxes or black sacks and that'll be it. We might leave behind memories in the minds of our loved ones, but even those will fade out of existence once they leave this world.
The meaning of life is something we're most likely never going to understand, so the idea is that we just accept that we are here and try to live life to the full while we have the chance. And that's what the majority of us do. We do the best with what we have. We laugh with friends and family. We spend our days going to school and then to work so we can try and make something of ourselves. We complain about the weather and moan about that jobsworth at the bank. We love and we hate, we feel joy and we feel pain. We see others come and go who might have an effect on our lives, while we have an effect on theirs too. We establish ourselves as individuals and embrace how each and every one of us is unique.
But we forget that we will all end up the same way at some point.
The other day I was hit by the idea that there will come a time when I'm nothing more than a lifeless shell of skin and bones and everything I might have done or achieved (or not achieved) in my time will all be for nothing.
So... what is the point? What is the point of the stress or the wondering, the happiness or the worrying, the suffering or the pleasures of life when it's all just going to be ripped away from us eventually anyway? There must be a reason for it, because what is the point in being born just to die again?
Maybe that's just it - maybe there is no point to it. Life is like a lot of silly, little things in this world: no one knows why it's there. It just is.
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