The death of possibility...

The great blessing of life is the existence of the possible. Every day, year, and decade that lies in the future holds untold promise. The promise of people met, things experienced, goals accomplished, life made better.

The great tragedy of life is the periodic, indefatigable onward march of time. As each single moment slips from our grasp, the infinite possibility therein dies with it. It is written, unchangeable, for the rest of forever. And the greatest past is still finite and unchangeable. It can't begin to compare to the potential of our boundless future moments.

The great conflict in life is how to spend each of those moments. They are precious, so precious. We can't keep them, we can't get them back, and we can't slow their passing.

So do we live in constant pressure to maximize the experience of every second that comes and goes so quickly? Do we enjoy each moment as much as possible? Do we avoid unpleasant moments at all costs?

I think the biggest injustice we do to the blessed gift of our existence is to spend moments in insignificance. Buried in those things that seem to consume life without giving anything in return. Those times we waste vegetating, or the times we sacrifice to indecision. Those times when we travel an apathetic path that we haven't embraced, but remain on because our inertia keeps us there.

When the twilight draws near and the moments left to us are less than those behind us, what will matter? When our priceless existence is over, what will we have? Each experience, each mental image ultimately will count for next to nothing. But even if it is for naught in the end, what else can we hold on to? Do we live a life of desperate struggle with the onslaught of time, wringing every last bit of experience and possibility from every instant? That person doesn't lay down and let the cold waters of life pass him by. This person fights an impossible, thrashing fight against the current, with a fate of death at best, to the bitter incredulity of onlookers and critics. The endless labor and constant energy do nothing but make the journey more exciting, as the reward is still an eventual slide into silent obscurity.

There is beauty in the serene life, the willful acceptance of time's unfeeling consumption of our hopes. The rock that is worn smooth shows how the promise of the jagged shape has been molded and restrained, so that every struggle is easier than the last, less notable, less complex, until even the little resistance still offered vanishes away into pure nothingness and slips away into the passing stream.

Which way to choose? For me, the regret of lost opportunity stings worse than the regret of hasty action. Maybe that's because I am biased to be risk-averse and conservative, and sabotage my experience because of it. Any thoughts to the contrary?

Science and Interpretation

It is a blessing to have studied both literature (art) and science (nature). For, I posit that just as we try to glean details about Coleridge, Shakespeare, or Camus based on their work, we can similarly glean such details about our creator through creation. Not in a specific sense - we don't really hope to find the birth date or eye color of an artist by studying their art - but in a much more abstract yet intimate way. What did the artist find inspiring? What feelings led them to choose the medium and style of a piece? How did their creative process shape and mold the final work, and what part of the artist is now encapsulated in that work?

This is where I am with God. I seek to know him, but I honestly care little for specifics. I don't want to know the details. I want to grow intimately familiar with the essence. Sure, that sounds new-age experimental and dangerous, but honestly I think otherwise we are in earnest danger of missing the forest entirely for all our obsession over each tree. We need to step back. Way back.