I don't understand how other people have the confidence to do things. Just existing and coming to grips with all the implications that concept contains is more than I can handle sometimes.
I'm a colony of single-celled microorganisms that cling together out of necessity. I'm an amalgamation of(more) atoms and molecules arranged in a highly specific, self-perpetuating array. I'm a cluster of faint flashes that bounce between reticulated lobes of grey matter.
Is there really an "I" in any of these things?
Life is like the weather. Wispy clouds form. They accumulate into raging storms. Then everything dissipates. All goes quiet. The landscape may have changed, but the world marches on, more or less unperturbed.
I don't think it matters whether I'm here or not. My value is contingent upon the existence of a handful of people who know and love and occasionally depend on me. Their existence, like mine, is transient. So most likely, nothing I've ever done or said will matter within a few decades of my death.
There are two ways to take this. One: it makes all of our achievements seem less significant. Two: it makes all of our mistakes seem less consequential.
Of course we probably affect the lives of others in strange, subversive little ways that we aren't aware of. It's not much to hope for, but when I'm feeling depressed, it's a reason to stick around. (less)
did you say smarter than who is a garbage blunder too. you gum busters thinking come-uppers stoop low to the bow and face stern with awful sweat beads on brows and broads at home too shallow to know how hollow, the awful woe
(more) the stem slingers are ring wearers frolicking freely on the subway liners from time to time they stop at every line prematurely frown before the wine and dine dimes in the side seats turn around (less)