Dear Aim in lyf,
You know the things I’m not particularly fond of: internet people who can’t differentiate between your and you’re, purpose, irony and you’re mom(i’m sure she’s lovely i was just being funny oh god) What irks me the most is this notion that everything exists for a reason; to fulfill some purpose.
Even the Joker, a self confessed psychopath with no rational conception of life craved purpose in the form of his one true
love hate, Batman. He could have very well gone over to.. I dunno.. Springfield (Sideshow Bob and Joker woulda made an adorable pair) and got that easy victory. But instead he chose to remain in Gotham and get thwarted again and again because that gave him purpose; not just any ol’ purpose but something that can’t be easily achieved.
Because sometimes that’s what we need in our lives, don’t we? Drama and impossible odds.
But we can’t even give into these melodramatic tendencies and complain about something. Everything in life is kind of a miracle. They were all created for a specific purpose. As some deep person would say ‘the error lies not in these apparatuses but in the humans that make these apparatuses’.
You can’t say your phone sucks because what you hold in your hand, no matter how crappy, is the whole world albeit at snail speed 2 GB internet. If your computer sounds like it has indigestion and is pondering deep philosopical questions (that goddamn circle next to the cursor) then give it for service, cheapo.
For god’s sake, even Bing, the shittiest search engine of all time has a purpose i.e. used as an example for ‘the shittiest search engine of all time’.
The universe is beautiful and terrifying filled with gravitational anomalies and dust tailed orbs each with some purpose. Even in the wake of the death of the universe we would still be left with a singularity, the purpose of which is probably high concept and mysterious.
Why this bothers me is because… okay, so what if I just want to spend life eating nachos, stargazing and dreaming about ride-able dinosaurs. This will never happen cause there’s this stupid primal human instinct which wont allow me to live without making something of myself.
I want to just accept that our existence is limited to us being hairy bags of flesh revolving around the incandescent glow of a dying sun which is likely to take us down with it in the future. Even if the purpose eludes me, the journey excites me.
smitten with this cosmic storm we call existence,