(no subject)
In my hand I'm holding a flower. It has no brain. It has no mouth. Its only ambitions are to grow and to reproduce.
I am a human. I cannot be satisfied just by growing and reproducing. I need more. I need to love. I need to do something with my life. I need to live. I need to know things, and to try to learn what I don't know. There are things that make me happy, but more and more it seems like there are far more things that sadden me, anger me, drive me to hate.
I don't know what to do and not knowing kills me. But not being able to learn is as good as being dead.
Is being satisfied a state of bliss or of weakness?
This flower, this plant in my hand, has grown from a seed to produce more seeds. That is all that there is for it to do, but that is all that there is for it to ever want to do. A single, simple task to determine if one has lived up to one's potential. And it did it all on its own, too, without having to rely on or befriend or impress any other than itself. It has no regrets and the only reason it would have any would be if it hadn't gotten enough water, sunshine, oxygen, or soil to thrive and bloom. Success, or failure, all based on surviving long enough. What a meaningless, pitiful existence. What a simple, wonderful one.
Why the hell can't I figure out which of us is better off?
I am a human. I cannot be satisfied just by growing and reproducing. I need more. I need to love. I need to do something with my life. I need to live. I need to know things, and to try to learn what I don't know. There are things that make me happy, but more and more it seems like there are far more things that sadden me, anger me, drive me to hate.
I don't know what to do and not knowing kills me. But not being able to learn is as good as being dead.
Is being satisfied a state of bliss or of weakness?
This flower, this plant in my hand, has grown from a seed to produce more seeds. That is all that there is for it to do, but that is all that there is for it to ever want to do. A single, simple task to determine if one has lived up to one's potential. And it did it all on its own, too, without having to rely on or befriend or impress any other than itself. It has no regrets and the only reason it would have any would be if it hadn't gotten enough water, sunshine, oxygen, or soil to thrive and bloom. Success, or failure, all based on surviving long enough. What a meaningless, pitiful existence. What a simple, wonderful one.
Why the hell can't I figure out which of us is better off?