I’m at the front seat of the bus heading home, seated in the coveted window seat. The Southern Bypass is kind to the rubber wheels that glide over it and the evening sun is putting on a show. I even spot a giraffe as we drive past the grassy savanna; and I wonder ancestors, did you falter?
For the things you died for, whose fruits I eat with little thought except when your names cross my mind. Did you falter?
I am doing what I love and even that tires me; makes me question sometimes whether it really is important to me and the world.
Written sometime in February 2020.
And then there was canna-oil…
When I opened a blank document, I wanted to write about how admirable I find the human spirit and how that makes me want to be stronger, better. And yet I am still in some grey area with a sort of existential crisis. Knowing the importance of some of the things I do and yet wondering in the first place, why the fuck life is setup in this way- where we have to grind and suffer to create things that are important. Is there an end?
And even when things are good, why do we always seek another hurdle to jump? Is death simply nature’s kindness because we would never grow weary of knowledge, like the universe keeps expanding? Is there no end?
And do we really ever die?