i love books and libraries, but when i picture my book, collecting dust on a library shelf, i get depressed, not motivated. besides, timothy findley thought books could change the world, until he published not wanted on the voyage. instead, i see myself as a modern-day cassandra, speaking my truth, but few listening. but rather than hide it, i’ll blog. maybe someday, while i’m collecting dust but electrons are still keeping my words intact, my thoughts may inspire others. or they may not.
funny thing–a few thousand books depress me, but the billions of years ahead of us give me hope. right now, i mean right NOW, i’m warm and dry and satiated and breathing and alive and filled with gratitude.
futility? nihilism? hardly. healing. i’m on the road to find out. we’re all connected, yet paradoxically i’m alone; everyone experiences birth and death and in between alienation by him- or herself.
think about it–the unexamined life may not be worth living, but is the examined life any better? once we’re on this road of bliss and blisters, we may have no choice but to stop and turn back. and who wants to do that?