I'm starting to feel older. The time that I've spent in my life is, in sum, a significant amount of time. I think I did things. I know I did, but I didn't do it all for myself, and I guess my brain is developing such that I don't think that's best. Even if the biologists think they can save us, make us immortal. I'm still affirmed in the finiteness of my time. It's a lot to get existential on a Monday morning, but the past few months were both a blur and a reckoning. I think I just realized that if things were to go similarly, for longer, for many years. I wouldn't be okay with that. I wouldn't be mad, but I can do better.
Stoicism is a beautiful thing. It was a practice of mine.
At least one that I recognized and kept in mind as a relatively young teenager. It evaporated, like many of my takes, thoughts and unarticulated but still strongly held beliefs. I'm unsure why it happened. But I think a big part of it was that caring was cool again. Caring about the "world" was more than cool: we would die.
The thought of the world. In its mightiness, we were significant. All of us, and we could do something about it. You care. You care so much. You care about everything so much. And so I did. And so I tried. I cared. I cared about every little thing, but at what cost? I mean, this was no imposition. I care quite a bit. I care about the typo in my email, and then I care about who gets the email, the recipient, and how they will think I'm incompetent and sloppy.
I care about the people that I care for. I care about my personhood, and my pride, and my duty. I care about what they see me as. An egoist. I care about my legacy, what they will think of me. The "they" I have no chance of meeting. I care about what story "they" say about me. I care that there is a story at all. I care. Caring is for those who care for themselves. But, the loathing is intoxicating. A bad habit. A guilty pleasure. Healthy to a point. I care about failing. I care about failing them. I care about failing my image and tainting my log of things with more stains. But, one can only care so much.
A speed of breath overtook me, and I wanted the tempo to slow. I want to feel the cliché when they say, "You should live in the moment." A scary thing was when I sat down and thought, what would my life look like if things could be better? I could feel that I would feel different, that I would feel better.
But, I couldn't imagine, and I couldn't say, what would actually be different. Maybe I'm not creative enough, but I think it's that all is well. There's not much to change; there are things to do, but the work, or all I could want, is right here. And so I breathe. I realize the ephemerality of it all, accept all that it is, in calm and say that I care for the moment, time, and space, but nothing more and nothing less.
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