In the fifth grade I played "Newspaper Boy" for our class' play. I had a total of five lines that I proudly delivered (after a great amount of rehearsing) to an audience of fifty-seven. In the ninth grade I could bench press all ninety-eight pounds of my body weight and earned an Ironman jacket that I strutted around the hallways in even during spring highs of 90+ degrees. I graduated in the top fifty of my class, had my first body of writing published at twenty and fell in love at twenty-one. I tell you all this because a hundred years from now, none of this will matter -- it hardly matters now. Very few things last forever; even diamonds disintegrate at eight-hundred degrees Celsius.
Knowing the problems of most people don't amount to a hill of beans and our success don't send ripples across the world, is our existence worth existing? Should we celebrate minor victories, screaming them from mountaintops in hopes someone will recognize our greatness, or should we shrug them off as part of the play of life and wait 'till the end to take our bows? Is the sum of our existence less than its total parts?
No comments:
Post a Comment