Even the fullest of lifetimes can only hold so much. Maybe that’s the trick about the whole thing. A singular existence can only contain so many multitudes, no matter the vastness that might otherwise appear to be.

So, I’d have to suppose that means some things must be left out. Can’t do it all even with the grandest of intentions and effort. Eventually, all the sand runs to the bottom of the glass. And thus invokes the great wonder of my current philosophical moment- what will it be that gets left out of this life of mine?

The bit my ego abhors admission towards is how little ends up being within the control I helm. Assuming, arrogantly, of course, that any of it is at all. That’s part of the whole sentient universe bit. For even if free will exists (a still very debated topic among the intellectual and idiot alike)- there at minimum must either clash or coalescence with those portions of free will housed in the hearts of all the others about. There are quite a few of us on this rock, after all. And we certainly don’t always agree. These days, it feels like we never do. Or so the pocket television always loves to remind us, these last few decades. But such thoughts, they would only feed into that very madness from which I hope this soul of mine to escape.

Alright, so, for my next trick- watch me make this all seem a bit more positive and hopeful. And as an extra kicker, I’ll even make it genuine. Just for you, my dear reader.

On this vaguely hungover Monday of skies greyed with weeping precipitation, I have been pondering and scratching out the whispers of ideas. And after that first bit about the limitations associated with this physical existence, a quote came to mind. I heard it from an excellent and absurd director of film, who almost certainly got the line from somewhere else.

‘Keep your eye on the doughnut, not the hole.’

That’s the part from elsewhere, this next part is all him.

‘All the other things that go on, they don’t matter. What matters is falling in love with the stories, or ideas, and realizing those.’

And that’s what it is, isn’t it? This whole life business. The story we tell with our very being. And even if it all opened up with the obituary, that wouldn’t tell the parts that matter. Not to you, nor they folks that you matter to. Those parts that make us so elegantly and horrifically human. And sure, perhaps if you reduce it down every story is the same.

You’re born. You live. You die.

And yet, it is that middle part that is the tale in truth, the part that makes all the difference. After all, you name the sandwich for what goes inside of it and not the two ends that the rest is stuck between. And as one of my favorite bards of the last century said with the full knowledge of his own immediately impending demise- ‘enjoy every sandwich.’

It is our tragedies and triumphs that make us, whether witnessed outside or not. To strive, to keep dreaming even impossibly so- that is the quest of existence. The moments that break and batter us, along with all those that fill us with surreal benevolence. For far greater than a life that is difficult, would be a life that bores us. And not seeking superficial thrill, but the genuine and inexplicable experiences that often only have their potency occur after their passing. How else would you even know you have a heart if it hadn’t had some shattering and endured beyond that?

It isn’t easy to stay friendly with optimism, certainly not if you have a mind like that of your humble narrator. And to collapse, to fail, it isn’t weakness. The true lack of strength would be to have never tried at all.

And a communal species, these stories of the lives of the others all around, they matter to. It is what feeds us, and not just the inspirational bits of possible fabrication of folks you’ve never met and will never know- but in the ones that we do. Finding abundance in each other, in our words and whimsy, in our silences and song- to share your tale to those endearing attentive around us, as well as tuning our attention to the tomes told by the ones we know. Even after they’re gone, and as it so often goes- especially after they’re gone. The only immortality, and the only kind I ever care about has not to do with the sustaining of our personal being beyond the normal lifecycle. It is in the forever that can be made from the world we never see. Beyond the sight of our physical lives, those that live beyond this life are never aware of that themselves. It comes from the tongues and calligraphy of those that go on well after our own mortal coil gets strung out and disposed.

There is a saying that I feel gets bastardized too often. Live in the moment, be present, etc, blah, blah, blah. And while that is true enough, the way we perceive it is flawed. The tone imposed by the loudest crowd of the moment either stray to the side of passivity or drummed up expectation. The moment(s), as it were, don’t occur with such direct intention or attention. They happen while we are out there, living open enough to even allow the slightest glimmer of illumination in. And I would argue that it is of paramount importance when we are in midst of greatest bemoaning. When hope seems thin is exactly when it matters the most.

So, onward, I say, and stay vigilant for these things worth living for, but be careful not to actively seek them. And to be yourself isn’t some static state. It is evolving and dynamic, while also be aggravating and eroding. And each day is another self, even when it seems as though nothing much at all has changed.

So, says I- keep being yourself, and I’ll keep being me. And we’ll keep being there for each other, as best we can.

A foolproof plan, made by fools. Just as it ought to be.