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.
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.
We live in an unprecedented time of information. For better or for worse, we have at our fingertips a constant stream of news and social media.
It is a common cry that life is short. There is never enough time to do the things we want to do or to get the things we want to get.
The world is mostly a cold, dark, bitter, lonely place of gladiatorial-like competition for limited resources, wealth, and power. We are not so far removed from our ancient evolutionary ancestors where we have been able to deny our instincts for territory and abundance with little concern for anyone who lacks them.