For the longest time, I thought I was the lone fuck-up in a world of over-achieving do-gooders. I thought everyone’s life was an unbroken string of success and that the charted trajectory of their experience was the steady, upward climb of progressively improved living.
Of all the gifts of childhood that we discard when we put on the shabby, overgrown, hand-me-down disguises of adulthood, it is the passionate pursuit of our dreams, through the following of our muse, that is the saddest thing we lose.
Throughout the storied and colorful history of philosophy, it has made many attempts at defining the good life. With these attempts some common themes began to emerge and a set of general models grew out of the disparate threads of definition that philosophers attached to their specific ideas of what the good life should look like.
When I talk to people about philosophy the conversation is inevitably steered towards the practical value of it. Why does it matter if we engage in deep philosophical inquiry into our lives?
There are days, weeks, months when I am worn. Where I am battered and beaten and stretched so thin that I swear I can see through myself.