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Maybe I’ve Been Reading Too Much Philosphy
It leads to questions
A question that that has been haunting me lately is: what is the point of me?
It’s a heavy one, I know. It comes about from, in roughly equal measure, a bad bout of depression, now thankfully nearly done, reading philosophy and the fact that I recently turned sixty-five and am facing another round of cancer surgery. It’s preventative at this point, but cancer’s a sneaky bastard, even when it’s behind you. So, the question arises. And I wonder, have I done enough of the right things in this life? If it’s getting time for me to face the end, can I be content with what I’ve done, how I’ve been in the world?
These are not easy questions to sit with.
And they’re maybe not even the right questions. Life is here to be lived, as it presents itself. Trying to wrangle it into some kind of sensible format misses a lot of the beauty and wonder that is there. You can get so caught up in trying to use the gifts you’ve been given for the greater good that you forget to simply appreciate them.
The pressure to have a purpose can deflect you from experiencing what is.
You can become so focused on finding the point of you, or the meaning of life, that you neglect to live. To just be in the world. Take in the sights. Enjoy the…
