“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. ― Charles Bukowski
Each day passes, often quicker than the last.
Before we know it, we’re used up, bereft of emotion for anything more than the memories of yesteryear.
Going through the motions: I’d wager, we’re all living with a profound sense of ennui.
And the solution?
I don’t know.
Does there need (always) to be one?
Isn’t there just birth, life and death? And some express a view that there’s no separation — we’re all part of the primordial soup spinning out of control.
If we were greedy for life, what would life look like?
9 to 5?
Same old, same old?
Making do as best we know how?
Waiting until we call time on our jobs?
I’m not trying to be obtuse or tendentious, but I wish, just once in a while, we’d fess up and admit to the sameness of each day and stop pretending that everything’s OK.
To escape this isn’t easy. In fact, for many people they don’t even try: they’ve allowed the curtain to descend — or worse still (e.g. drug, drinks, sex) — to the point where they’re ensconced in their comfort zone never knowing a life of meaning, purpose or what art might do for them and those closest to them.
I feel it too…each and every day: I come to work when I should be doing my best to dislocate my comfortable self, to administer a shock of such an epic proportion that I’m shaken out my little world.
But then again…
I come back to this question that continues to swallow me whole:
Are we the mover or the moved?
In that space, it’s hard to understand if going through the motions is our torment for not breaking the bonds with our Lizard Brain and leaning into something much more adventurous of our soul.