The endless supply that I’d want most is time. Which is also what we’re supposed to fear the most. Since supposedly all that time will make us value it so little that we wouldn’t do anything after all, or we’d be bored of everything we could do.
When I was nineteen I wrote an essay exactly about this, except using the context of Greek Gods, who were petty and thoughtless because they had too much time on their hands. And that mortals, with their limited time, had so much more meaning to their existence, because their lives are so short in comparison.
But I wrote this essay for a class where I was trying to curry favor with the professor. I didn’t believe what I was arguing then and don’t believe it now.
In fact I’m all the more curious about how wise I could get if I could live forever, or at least a thousand years, or a million, or a billion. For sure there’s a lot we don’t understand about the universe, and as long my time also came with an intact brain, there would be a huge amount to learn, and probably still never get through all the learning.
It’s interesting to realize how much value I’m placing on learning. Is this what existence is about? Is it the most enjoyable,meaningful thing we can do (besides loving and being loved, which is nice but always seemed to be lacking in a goal and structure).
What do I want to learn, exactly, with this lifetime supply of time? I’d want to learn how to make my own meaning, because I don’t think I’ll have enough understanding of who I am, what it means to be human, what God is, in this short 80 year life. I'm too embroiled in the day-to-day, problem-solving of living. Which may, I grant you, be really what means the most in the end.
I was listening to a podcast of hospice workers and struck by how, at the end, it's all about the little things: managing pain, finding time to be with family, performing rituals of care, to acknowledge you're still there. I would hate to find out that life maybe is all about the little things in the end, that these people in hospice didn't have enough time to get beyond those things. Or maybe there is no getting beyond. I hope I can bear finding this out.
— siobhan
When I was nineteen I wrote an essay exactly about this, except using the context of Greek Gods, who were petty and thoughtless because they had too much time on their hands. And that mortals, with their limited time, had so much more meaning to their existence, because their lives are so short in comparison.
But I wrote this essay for a class where I was trying to curry favor with the professor. I didn’t believe what I was arguing then and don’t believe it now.
In fact I’m all the more curious about how wise I could get if I could live forever, or at least a thousand years, or a million, or a billion. For sure there’s a lot we don’t understand about the universe, and as long my time also came with an intact brain, there would be a huge amount to learn, and probably still never get through all the learning.
It’s interesting to realize how much value I’m placing on learning. Is this what existence is about? Is it the most enjoyable,meaningful thing we can do (besides loving and being loved, which is nice but always seemed to be lacking in a goal and structure).
What do I want to learn, exactly, with this lifetime supply of time? I’d want to learn how to make my own meaning, because I don’t think I’ll have enough understanding of who I am, what it means to be human, what God is, in this short 80 year life. I'm too embroiled in the day-to-day, problem-solving of living. Which may, I grant you, be really what means the most in the end.
I was listening to a podcast of hospice workers and struck by how, at the end, it's all about the little things: managing pain, finding time to be with family, performing rituals of care, to acknowledge you're still there. I would hate to find out that life maybe is all about the little things in the end, that these people in hospice didn't have enough time to get beyond those things. Or maybe there is no getting beyond. I hope I can bear finding this out.
— siobhan
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