Reflections on Life's Path

We know life is finite, but we don't accept it. And if we do accept it, then we don't address it. Many don't have life insurance—then again, why would you? The longer you live, the more expensive it gets, and if you live too long, it expires. We don’t write wills—again, why would we? Who deserves our treasures if we have any?

Looking towards future generations like a good Japanese enterprise is rare, especially since we don’t want to look ahead to the next fifty years. Besides, look how much life has changed so far. Only a fool would think it wouldn’t change just as much, if not more, in the future. Is the world getting better, or is it in waves, up and down? Is your life getting better or worse, or is it just a matter of cycles? Is not worrying the key, or is worry what brings solutions? Is love the key or respect? Is marriage the answer, or friendship? Does sex solve shortcomings, or is it an expression of closeness? Or is it just a biological reproductive process?

The pleasure of sex, food, and wine is overrated, but the goodness of closeness, of love, of togetherness is overlooked. What is friendship, and what is its benefit? The avoidance of loneliness? What’s wrong with loneliness, anyway? Or is loneliness indeed a problem, but aloneness not?

How often does a man look in the mirror, and what does he see? And how often a woman? Does she see beyond her beauty or lack thereof? In the depth of the eyes, deep into the soul—if there is one (for sure there must be one, or perhaps not in everyone)—what is seen? The evil, the good, the constant battle of choice between destruction and progress. The inner fascist and the inner savior. The inner beast and the inner person.

For to assume that we are incapable of the greatest evil is to be void of reality, and to likewise claim that we are limited in our greatness is yet another crime against oneself. But the path of mediocrity, constant floating, hitting the left bank and then the right bank, like a rotting log floating down the river, is the path of many who cannot forgive their evil and who do not have the courage to pursue their greatness.

For a beast that accidentally kills the wrong prey does not feel bad as it pursues the correct prey. It doesn't get stuck on existential guilt, and it doesn’t worry in circles about the offense it’s caused. For to pity oneself, to lie in bed in depression, and to cry like a baby over insignificant events and experiences is uniquely human. Is it a pathetic weakness or a secret strength? The constant cry of "Why am I not loved? Why am I not wanted?" Imagine the great bear asking this question or the shark in the open ocean. How do we benefit by feeling sorry for ourselves? By seeking pity in others? By belittling ourselves, hidden under the shower?

And why do we remember so clearly all those people who pointed out how worthless we were, and less so those few—very few—who called out our greatness? Do we see ourselves as creatures of disgust? Then why do we fight so hard when someone insults us? Why will we yell, scream, and kick, and yet, under our blankets, tell ourselves how worthless we are? Are we all just suffering psychosis at some level? Is the human experience psychotic? A body of flesh combined with an untouchable soul?

How can we trust those who claim to have the answers to anything? The expert doctor who gets whipped by his wife in the bedroom? The excellent detective who likes spanking his boyfriend at night, bent over his lap? Am I confusing topics? Has one nothing to do with the other? Can a judge be a great judge if he's into underage girls? Doesn’t it all point to a lostness, a search for meaning in a world where meaning is elusive?

And how do we benefit from this search for meaning? Or perhaps we’re just meant to get to the other side as unscathed as possible? Or maybe it’s not even about that—maybe whether we get to the other side doesn’t even matter. Perhaps we just are, whoever we are and whatever we are, and there is no benefit or purpose in being one way or another.