As I ramble
on about my sad brain, my fears and inadequacies I reflect on an article I read
the other day, discussing the idea that we have still not “seen” to the middle
of our own galaxy, never mind the universe (is there a possibility of a “middle”
when it is infinite?). I like the idea
of infinity and I don’t very much like the idea of the universe binding in on
itself. That concept seems to take away
from infinity because how can infinity bind in on itself – that would infer
something on the outside of it, wouldn’t it?
In contrast to thinking about the
vastness of space, one can look down on an ant hill and ponder the meaning of
life from the tiniest life and how brief such a life is. As many before me have said “life is strange”. Reading about Stephen King’s rabbit hole in “11/23/63”
and remembering the recurring day in “Groundhog Day” causes me to reflect on
how many days are the same in my humdrum life.
Drive to C-train, get on train, read my book, get off at station, walk
down sidewalk, take this light, cross over this street, pick up newspaper, up
the elevator . . . day after day after day.
I find myself questioning if this is Tuesday or Wednesday?
What does thinking about the universe,
about ants and about repetition have to do with each other? Simply that life is one big question mark and
we will never have a definitive answer.
Is there a meaning to life or is everything random? Do we have a purpose or do we create our
purpose? Does any of the questions
matter? Do the answers matter?
In short, are we happy regardless of the
answer?
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