A life of courage, joy and independence.
Man and womanhood are sufficient ends
To a stout and earnest mind
Dismissive of distraction
Heedless of precedent
Careless of legacy
Fearless of death
Consumed of resolve
To speak one true thing
What is the life of inquiry? A mere hobby? Or some culmination of an evolved application of sense? Base musings and actions can satisfy when our animal needs have our foremost attention. But when the belly is full, and all appetites tamed, and we look yet upon the moon with wonder. Where then will we discover succor? What purchase, consumption or conquest can answer such ephemeral inquiry? Leave off you companions now. Put down your books. Walk a ways and then stop. Look again at the moon. And consider.
The incline of years provokes more deliberate motion. Each effort becomes more sincere, less wanting in original purpose, and a better end in itself than the more careless motions of youth.
Hope alone is powerless without action
A vain dream amidst clouds
Yelling into the wind
An empty comfort
A feign to life
The older I get the more distant and indistinct the apparition of truth
While recognized falsehood grows in piles around me
Correcting my own bad ideas is a painful process of self-induced surgery. Digging through protective layers to reveal and remove diseased thinking without anesthesia. Sometimes there’s no suitable organ of cognitive transplant. And the patient must simply limp on through life with nothing better to fill the once-comforting cavity of debilitating error.
The incline of years provokes more deliberate motion. Each effort becomes more sincere, less wanting in original purpose, and a better end in itself than the more careless movements of my youth.
The most fruitful season is the age of doubt. I long for my daughter’s challenge and youthful admonition. Will I be able to satisfy her demands to know the reasons for the things I claim are true, or the motive and source for the joy I feel in so believing.
It’s good to discover my daughter isn’t bored, scared or intimidated by the truth. Facts are sometimes dull. Though through no fault of their own. After all, they have no ulterior motive than to simply be true. Reality doesn’t care if it wins us over. So what if I die harboring some comforting delusion?
What’s real also never wears makeup. Beware any claim which must first put on its face. Facts are sometimes ugly and often a downright fright to behold.
And what’s more dull than a universe which never speaks at us and behaves as if we’re not even there? Perhaps the brevity of our lives simply earn us no more notice than the sparks of a campfire.
My kid seems fine with this, which fact fills me with greater confidence for her future than grades, talent or ambition. Let her walk into adulthood unsure and unafraid for the fact of her uncertainty. Prepared to live and ultimately die confident of nothing more than what can be proved, validated or justified. A life where an answer’s quality is the sole measure of its truth. Where comfort and ease have no place in determining what is real.