Our perverse desire to measure our lives, comes from a very deep sense of restlessness.
It seems to come from the baser part of our human nature. Leaving us broken and defeated, while the victor, satisfied, for the moment at least, takes his bow.
In time, the champion will fall too, and it doesn’t take too long, because after all, it all must, somehow, come unhinged and unravelled. The victor becomes a victim. A victim of their own success. Overcome with anxiety and fear. Overwhelmed by the overindulging standards of success, which in time, they can’t possibly hope to maintain.
And so, we dance.
We raise our hands, longing for our turn. We roll the dice, hoping for the right numbers to fall. We buy our lottery tickets, get the right education, land the perfect job, and we rub our rabbit’s foot, counter clockwise, of course, always counter clockwise, because, really, what else are we going to do?
How about nothing?
Not a single fucking thing.
(Yes, I said fucking, let’s move on).
You have to understand, once and for all, that you have nothing to prove.
There is absolutely nothing for you to do.
There are no standards you must master. Tests you must ace. Palms you must grease. Crowds you must please. There are no goals for which you must endure developing an ulcer.
It’s all make believe.
A nightmarish playground, where everyone is unhappy, because they are not somebody else.
You were given life.
Don’t dismiss it so quickly.
Life.
Being.
The ability to connect.
To be someone.
To make something; for yourself and for others.
You were given a little bit of time, so you can tell the people you come in contact with, what you think and feel. To tell the people you love, what they mean to you. To share your time with them. To laugh with them. To cry with them. To hug them. To remember them. Before you run out of time, or forget.
Life, can’t be measured.
It must be lived.
And being, can’t be won.
I’m not saying that being alive negates our need to work. That it abolishes our need to create or to do something with our lives. There will always be a time to learn something, to do something, to make something, and to sell something. There is plenty of time for all of that, but never, at the expense of living.
And that is the point.
Many of us are resolute to merely survive, so we get a chance to fight again. We lick our wounds, so that we can be well enough someday, to try again.
But life is not about survival.
Life is about art, and music, and poetry.
Life is like a dancer. Moving, jumping, and bending herself to the movements of the music, for no material gain, and for no discerning reason, except that it’s beautiful.
Life is beautiful.
It’s not measurable.
So, stop measuring yourself.
Stop trying to live up to standards, the next generation will ignore anyway.
Live a little.
Laugh a lot.
Be yourself.
Break your damn ruler.
