Inspired by "Anyone Can Cook" by Michael Giacchino, for Disney-Pixar’s Ratatouille

Endings

At the end of the day, when everything falls silent, there are often times when peace invites itself. The chimes from our devices may find themselves dampened, our loved ones sleep, and the burden of productivity is briefly and gently lightened. Many will find peace in virtually anything, and for just as many reasons. But The Night is something genuinely, and uniquely intriguing to me.

It is during this time, and other times when we may find peace, that we are truly left to our own devices. Without pressure, some may find themselves unstructured, or even unfulfilled. But for me, and I suspect others like me, we are sometimes allowed to flourish, it seems.

It is a peace of our choosing.

With peace, there is usually little pressure. Little pressure often comes with limited stimuli. If there is nothing much pressuring or worrying me, it is likely because there are very few tasks left in the world that are pending with me. Perhaps it is because there aren’t as many people relying on me—or, perhaps, it is because I am confident in my peace, because I know everything around me is running smoothly enough without me. Or perhaps it is because I know that The Night is not a time when people are usually expected to be productive. Nay, maybe I even thrive in pressuring environments or scenarios. Perhaps I need plenty of stimuli at once to match my work pace.

At the end of The Night, It is a peace of our choosing, but this is only great if we are able to choose.

With few stimuli and little pressure, we are either enticed into productive ideas and thoughts, or we spiral into disasters of our own design, risking being drowned by them. We often think of the mind being a part of us, but it’s often more than that. Our subjective experience of our lives is stored in our minds.

My mind remembers the crisp, fresh air I smelled when my mother and I crossed the English Channel from Dover to Calais. It also remembers the misty freshness and sweatiness that I experienced when I was waiting in line to summit the Eiffel Tower—they had set up sprinklers overhead that would frequently and generously spray us with cool potable water, both in the sun and under roofs. It also remembers the asphyxiating heat we experienced in Sion, Switzerland, as our unit had no AC…

Perhaps we do not give our minds enough credit. It does remember. It does process. Whether we like it or not, or know it or not, it will.

But those moments are gone. They will never come back. And because of that fact, it is imperative that we absolutely make every second as deep as possible. We must populate our lives with detail and ornamentation; flair, stories, lore, activities, love;

Art.

But the moments are still gone.

Recently, this became painfully obvious to me once again.

Nostalgia

A beautiful word. The Britannica Dictionary defines it thusly1:

Nostalgia
n. (uncountable)
pleasure and sadness that is caused by remembering something from the past and wishing that you could experience it again

With an abundance of time, and a dubiously healthy dose of an overactive imagination, I found myself reflecting on nostalgia a lot.

Sometimes, some moments will trigger that sense of nostalgia for long parts of your life. For a long time, happy moments in elementary school were nostalgic for me. Eventually, I think they lost their sparkle as I grew jaded.

But then there are those… other times.

The times when I catch a gust of some crisp, fresh air, that’s only gently tinged with the scent of coastline. Those times, I am brought back to the Channel.

The next time I’m misted by some anti-heatstroke cooling sprinklers at Canada’s Wonderland, I might just as well be misting myself in Paris, under la tour Eiffel.

Perhaps, when I am next confronted with a stuffy, incapacitatingly humid and hot environment, I may remember my time in Sion, Switzerland—or even, my time as an Orientation Chair at Lassonde.

Or maybe it’s the childhood games that I reacquired recently, that painfully reminded me of what that naive little younger me was doing back in 2007…

The innocence, the joy, the pain—the pre-2008 financial crisis era.

The Disney-Pixar golden age, the THQ games, the Wii, the PSP, the young internet; Cars diecast models, Pokémon cards and DS games, Beyblades, Silly Bandz, those elastic bracelet looms, cootie catchers…

Linkin Park—Chester Bennington, Robin Williams, Chadwick Boseman, Kobe Bryant… May they all rest in Peace, knowing they formed huge parts in our formative years.

But crucially, the moments when I experience these bouts of nostalgia, are fundamentally and, ostensibly irreconcilable with the worlds those memories are holding on to. The person I am now would be absolutely surprising to someone who had only last seen me seven (7) years ago. They are by no means comparable experiences.

But, then again, maybe they are.

Perhaps we should grant ourselves the liberty of of imperfect ideas; messy feelings, and equally ambiguous connections. If we can embrace imperfection in ourselves, we can polish it into something greater.

A Rubik’s cube speed-solver will look at the cube for fifteen (15) whole seconds before solving it in under three (3) seconds. A sculptor has to know the surface, and understand the mineralogical composition, of their marble intimately before beginning their work.

It would seem, then, that time must be invested to be able to save time next time.
Hindsight truly is 20/20.

Growth

And, as it goes with skills, projects, and journeys of self-exploration and growth, so it goes with friendships, social burdens, symptoms, and pains:

Hindsight is 20/20.

I am only recently turned twenty-five (25), and I am well aware (or so I hope) of the unfathomably staggering amount of life ahead of me. I know it, because I have already live a staggering amount of life as it is. I could tell you about it for years, and I don’t even remember all of it.

Assuming I was born at midnight the day of (00:00), you can add six (6) hours, twenty-four (24) minutes, and ten (10) seconds to that timer as of now.

That’s a long time. And it’s already longer.

Would a younger me, if they met me now, want to befriend me? Maybe a six-year (6) old me, sure. At ten (10), maybe not. At sixteen (16) though, I think so, definitely.

Would me from a year ago be surprised by where I am now, and what I have accomplished since then?

Yes.

Would he be disappointed in many aspects of my life, and how far they’ve diverged from what his “present” timeline suggests will happen?

Also yes.

But of course, many of these things may not have been directly in his control. But some of them, I have come to find now, definitely were. Was I to know? Probably not. Could I have known? If I had known, then I could have… but if I could have, then I obviously would have. Paradoxical, but stoicism tends to be.

But of course I have failed. Horribly. I have failed friends, family, loved ones, and even those who—some of my friends would argue—didn’t deserve my kindness anyway. But I do find solace in trying to make amends: A peace of our choosing.

In my experience, apologies are useless, but apologies are indispensable.

I hope my friends, family and loved ones forgive me for my past mistakes, for which I am very sorry.

- "Did you die?"
- "Yes, but I lived."
   - unknown

I would be lying if I said I never wish to have known things earlier. The process by which life marches unrelentingly forward is cruel, unforgiving, painfully permanent, and tragically assymetrical. We can’t go back. For all our history, time has been an imperceptivly quick arrow, with its cosmic fletchings firmly placed on the rear of its shaft. The arrowhead always points ahead. The arrow of time as we know it, insofar as the laws of physics are concerned, has been beautifully stoic and unrelenting in its pursuit to move forward.

Perhaps it is time we learned from it;
To not move forward in blindness, but to push forward with hope.

Guilt and acceptance are both equally potent chemicals in the chemistry of life. They are both very dangerous on their own, but they are also both very necessary. Guilt is just a reminder of a mistake, and a mistake forgotten is a worse kind of mistake, is it not? But if every single mistake was given the same unforgettable mental weight, on the other hand, we’d crush ourselves from within.

Acceptance is what allows us to keep going, and it allows us to recalibrate our expectations after the shattering of our previous ones. We must learn to accept. There are many different ways of doing it, and they vary in healthiness, but ultimately:

To make a house bigger, some walls have to fall.

But too much acceptance and you risk becoming numb; tone-deaf, obnoxious; insensitive. Balance is key, and self-moderation is as well. Ultimately, the only person who is in your head at all times, is you. So it is up to you to fix your situation. Those who care about us (or say they do, as we may never be able to prove them otherwise), know this already, and if they still try to talking to you to help you, then we mustn’t bite the hand:

I’ve found that grudges held against people who care about you, eventually become grudges you hold against yourself.

Trust those around you, but crucially, trust yourself when you’re the expert on the matter.

The Morning

At the end of The Night, when everything ramps up, there are often times when peace removes itself. The chimes from our devices find themselves hastened and loudened, our loved ones are awake and clamouring, and the burden of productivity is now firmly upon your shoulders.

Many will find peace in virtually anything, and for just as many reasons. But The Night is something genuinely, and uniquely intriguing to me. And it still is.

But sometimes, the mornings after can be even more exciting.

Perhaps, one day, we may find peace here too. A peace truly of our choosing.

Is fate preordained?

Personally, I am a big fan of the idea of “canon events” which Marvel has used to great effect in their Spider-Verse movie franchise. Canon events are events that, ostensibly, cannot be changed; in some ways, they are anchors in time that help us become who we are at our most fundamental level (though, they are not to be confused with “absolute points” in time, which is another nebulous Marvel concept altogether).

The idea that there are certain things in this world that need to happen for us to achieve our full potential is an endearing one. It’s a comforting one. It works well because it doesn’t presuppose a benevolent motive behind it at all; canon events are usually the most painful and heavy to bear, and they typically result in the death of loved ones.

Time travel is also a fun concept. Ever since H. G. Wells wrote his book The Time Machine (1895)1, the minds of the people have been captivated. For millennia, the greatest source of loss and regret for our species has been the cold and irreversible nature of time. The mere notion of its defiance immediately lights up our minds.2

But what if there was a connection between these ideas and our everyday lives?

I present to you, a framework. This is by no means scientific, but oftentimes the exploration of a fallacious notion yields insight unobtainable through success alone.

• If past actions lead to our present, then present actions lead to our future.

• If our past selves knew not where we would be now, our present selves cannot predict our future selves.

• If past failures ended up working out, present ones may too.

Put together, I posit this:

The mere fact that I am planning for my future, the way I have before, must mean that there is a version of me, in this multiverse of fate, that made it there. If there is a version of me that exists in the future, all I need to do is stick around.

And if I stick around, I’ll try doing whatever I can to make mine and others’ lives better. In fact,

If my past self, bumbling around as they were, was able to get me to where I am now, that means (in some ways) that their success and survival was inevitable.

In this story of mine, I am here. Therefore, my past self had to make it. They thought they wouldn’t make it, but they did. Sometimes, they even thought that not making it was better. But obviously they were wrong. My continued existence alone is proof that they were wrong.

And my hope, is that I will continue to be proven wrong. It’s worked for me so far.

After all, what else can we really do, if not hope?

As I write this, I am also highly cognizant of the fact that this framework can see itself questioned by those who did not plan. What if you never planned to get this far?

Then perhaps your existence is an even greater testament to your inevitability. Even without a plan, you made it this far. Imagine what you could do with a plan.

Of course, these are mere words on a digital page. The nuance and depth of human life cannot be succinctly summarized, explained, or rationalized for any single person—let alone millions.

I guess you’ll just have to dust off your optimism glasses and don them with me for this one. Call it a spiritualism if you like.

This whole “living” thing is crazy, and not just for you. It’s everyone’s first time here, so try not to be righteous about your view of the world. This is, hopefully, just one more little plank in your mansion of ideas. I see many flaws with it, but I like it. And that’s what humanity is about: The defiance of logic. It’s a wonder that we’re here.

"How strange and how lovely it is to be anything at all."
- “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” by Neutral Milk Hotel

Sit there.

You might not. You might be accustomed to the constant grind of life; perhaps that endless stream of “good” stress that you feed yourself. Or, maybe, you needed this break—and it wouldn’t be the first time you did.

Point is, you’ve been here before. This is your favourite drink. You know what your favourite pastime is, and you know what amount of stress you can handle, or at the very least, what you’re used to. You find comfort in this routine. We find comfort in routines, but somehow also feel the urge to explore and run away, for whatever reason. Isn’t that strange?

We abhor change and crave novelty. This should be paradoxical—and yet, we understand this intuitively. We wouldn’t be against picking up a new book, trying out a new outfit, watching a new movie or, to those who can, maybe even moving somewhere else. The fact that we could ever be okay with these things, while simultaneously getting upset because our coffee was prepared wrong, or because our bedroom is too hot, is a bit weird.

Perhaps it is about the change we are comfortable with. Sure, let’s go with that. It makes sense. I wouldn’t be comfortable if the edge of my sleeves were wet, because they are not meant to be. My person, and the clothes thereon, should be safe and comforting to me. I should not also be carrying some distress. And yet, we do.

In fact, we almost seek stress. We carry incredibly stressful, thinking rocks—with every single possible distressing news article on them—in our pockets and purses. Other people will call us on these rocks, and tell us of their distressing news, but we welcome it because we’d rather know than not know. A moment later, we might smile, because the flight we booked or the road trip we planned, is in a few hours. It could even be a hangout with friends at a restaurant you had never heard of, but we smile anyway.

Are we meant to be put in these stressful situations? One could argue that, yes, we are. And it boils down to this idea of “good” and “bad” stress. Who decides which is which, though?

“Bad stress is stress that negatively impacts your emotions and mental welbeing,” some might say. Likewise, “good stress is stress that motivates you and helps you grow.” Facing one’s fears can be seriously debilitating, or panic-inducing, but some would argue that it’s good change, and that it is worth it. Indeed, every single experience we live or see, helps us grow, in its own way. Even if you do break down in panic, I guess.

What do we make of this? There are certainly some experiences that no one should ever have to go through. Unfortunately, there are many. But there are also some experiences that everyone should go through. Of these, there are just as many. So what gives? It would almost seem like there are no rules that apply; no mantras to adhere to. Systematizing what refuses to be might be a futile endeavour. I mean, it would be, if I write it like that.

Maybe life is to be lived. Maybe joy is to be had, and grief to be felt, and nothing else. Maybe life is just that simple. But it also obviously isn’t. We have governments, economies, responsibilities, jobs, relationships—there is no shortage of expectation on our shoulders. But maybe those are secondary. After all, what is it that we spend our money on? Sure, we might spend money to make money. We might invest; we might save. But for what?

To live.

Not just survive. To survive, one needs food, water, shelter, healthcare, love, and entertainment. To live is to thrive, and to brave. To scare ourselves a little. To enjoy things we never have. To fear things we never feared. So yes, we might fear change, and long for novelty, but it isn’t as paradoxical as it once seemed, now is it?

There are some things we want to change, and there are some we don’t. It’s not out of comfort, or because of rules imposed on us, as enticing as they might sound. Rather, it is out of a desire to have and to feel. I might not want to feel the cold wetness of my sleeves on my skin, because I want the warm and cozy embrace that I want my home to provide, instead. Not because it should, but because I have seen that it can, and it has pleased me before.

We, too, know that putting ourselves in uncomfortable positions can help us grow. We would not have done it, if life had not forced us to do so, or if a parent had not imparted on us their wisdom. They know, not because they were born knowing, but because they have seen. They have felt. And now, we do too.

Plato once presented us with the allegory of the cave. He was trying to illustrate what the effects of education, or the lack thereof, could have on people. In his allegory, a group of people are chained down inside a cave, and only ever shown some shadows, cast by beings unknown to them, in front of a flame they have never seen. To them, these shadows are everything. The shadows seem to speak to them, and they listen, for a disembodied voice is not something that they could even imagine. The voices came from people they could not see, and the shadows were only indirect representations of what was truly there, out of reach. But to them, these shadows and their “voices” were their reality. The moment one of them frees themselves, and walks outside the cave, they suddenly see, in a way they had never seen before, and they are forever changed. Living chained inside a cave becomes unconscionable. It was not inherently so.

If we gloss over the slippery slope here, that “people who only know pain or bad things should thus be fine with it,” we might find my point, which is actually in direct contradiction to this fallacious one. You see, the moment they walked out and saw, they now knew, and that cannot be taken away from them. If they had been fine with their conditions, they would go back. But they don’t. If they do, it would be out of fear, because they do not yet know what this new world might do to them. But they know that cave is safe. It’s a weighing of pros and cons; not because they desire one or the other, but because one or the other might give them what they desire.

We know that facing our fears can help us beat them and live happier lives, because we’ve actually done it before. We did it before because someone told us to, and they told us to because they had done it before. If we find out that facing a specific fear did not turn out well for us, then we might not ever do it again. We do not seek certain types of change or stress because certain actions are inherently good or bad for us, but because some bring us closer to our perfect life, and others don’t. Some actively push us further.

We want to live. We want to thrive, and we want to better ourselves. The path we take is not always the path we built, and that is okay. We do things because we learned what we had to do. Our choices and feelings are overflowing with reason, but we like to reduce ourselves for some reason.

We do know what we like.

After all, we don’t cry when our friend scares us by hiding behind the door.

We fear first. We smile second.

The two never were diametrically opposed foes to begin with, but for whatever reason, we are now made to believe that they are. I have personally never known a scientist who doesn’t listen to several playlists at the gym, and others more on their way to work—just as I know of many artists, acutely aware of how light interacts with their many nuanced pigments, and how it makes its way to the eye of the viewer. In fact, they go a step further: they know, with great intimacy and gentleness, the ways in which the mind might perceive it—in ways science, even now, does not fully grasp.

They are two sides of the same human coin. The coin we roll every day, and—sure, every now and again, the coin must stop. We focus on one side of it, and use it for what we need, in the ways that we can. But we’re not rolling. If anything, it’s the flourishing of the creative mind that allows us to jump from any idea to any other at all.

“So what?” you might ask—and I do encourage you to ask. Well, I think it’s incredibly important to try to think in this way. There is not a single thing in this world that exists in isolation. Not even a single concept. Nothing at all… And I think accepting that reality with open arms, rather than fear and disdain, should be of great solace and comfort. It’s hard to embrace the extreme interconnectedness and complexity of the universe around us. It’s frightening.

That rock over there? Its place in time tells a history, its structure spells its chemistry; its colour and radiance? A testament to physics and human appreciation. That lichen on it? An entire ecosystem of biological webs and beauty that nearly makes the rock just as much a living thing as the butterfly upon it. Be picked up by a hairless hominid, and suddenly it is of anthropological value. Put it on a spear and now it is political—painful. Polish it a little? Well, it goes into a child’s pocket, and for a day or two, it is invaluable and precious. Makes one question whether the beauty came before or after the lichen.

This can be incredibly overwhelming. In fact, in some ways, it should be. If we weren’t constantly baffled by the enormity and just… unfathomable scale of the world we lived in, we would probably cease being human. It is truly human to be in awe. To find beauty in things no one else does. The way everything intersects should not pose as a deterrent to one’s curious eye. Nay, it should be an invitation to something we may never grasp—and that’s okay. We are not infinite.

It is truly human to be in awe, to be confused; to be absolutely boggled in the mind. If we refuse to do these, and to be intellectually vulnerable, nothing else will do it for us. Insofar as we know, we are the only ones capable of such silly things. The only ones who tell jokes, and stories; the ones who reply sarcastically and sneakily hide around corners; the ones that cry when watching movies, or when looking at stars. We must allow ourselves to feel these things. It’s what we’re here for.

Be proud of that.

Another thing I found deeply interesting is how intersectional, complex, and convoluted friendship interactions can be. This sounds extremely vague and trivial, but I’ll get to it.

We, as people, have a limited amount of time on this planet. We don’t like thinking about it, but it’s true. We might very well have only about 82 birthdays. That’s 82 New Year celebrations; 82 Halloweens, 82 Christmases (if you celebrate). Hell, it gets bleaker when you realize that you’ll likely not remember or have much conscious control over the first 14 of those, and the last 25. I’ll stop delving into this for now, because it is starting to get to me as well, but you get the idea.

There’s only so much we can do with our time, and so much we can do in a day. We have to constantly prioritize or deprioritize what we do—and figure out what we can do—with that precious, precious time. And so it goes with our relationships; our companions. I can only hang out with a friend for so long. I can only talk to so many friends at once for so long. In this increasingly interconnected world—a world that has normalized the day at all hours of the night—it is becoming harder to maintain all our relationships to the level we’d probably like; there are simply too many connections and faces, and too few hours in a day. And life keeps asking more of us as we go, and that definitely doesn’t seem like it’s going to change any time soon.

So what do we make of this bleak chaos? Well, I think it’s the acceptance that we are not infinite, though we wish and often treat ourselves as though we were. Our presence is not infinite—or, at least it isn’t in the conventional sense (as I personally believe that the universe and everyone in it will feel your presence for the rest of time. Whether or not it will be able to articulate or remember it is another thing entirely). Our time is not infinite. Our emotions are not infinite, and our patience—nay, our capacity for… basically anything, is not infinite. It never has been, and likely never will be.

Okay, so we went from one bleak chaos, to another bleak ‘reality.’ Right. Well, let’s dig deeper. I think there’s more here than meets the eye.

Sure, we are not infinite. So what do we make of this, then? Well, I think it’s the acceptance of the self, for one. And through that, the acceptance of the other; the patience to tolerate the finiteness of those around us. We never get to know just how much time our friends have available to give on any given day. We typically just hear a nice “yes” or a disheartening “no.” We can ask what’s going on in their lives, but we hear what they know and say, not what they actually lived. It’s one thing to have a meeting scheduled for a meagre hour. It is another one entirely to then wake up hours before it, to shower, brush, prepare, procrastinate, drive or transit, get to the meeting place, and do all of it with enough time so as to not appear dishevelled and winded, but with not so much time that we waste more than we had to. Oh, and if a bus is late, an alarm was missed, or you forgot to charge your phone—it gets so demanding so quickly. We really should cut ourselves some slack.

Maybe we should re-examine how we see these things. That trip in the car or on the bus is just as much your life as the party last night, or the meeting you were late to, or the job you hate. The sun was always up. The birds were always chirping. We just have to notice it.

In doing this, we can better understand others, and realize that their lives are just as complex and just as chaotic as ours. Sonder. One of my favourite words of all time, it is defined as the following:

“n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.”[1]

We are not infinite, though we wish we were. And I think that makes our time here that much more meaningful. We should allow ourselves to simply live; to feel and laugh and cry. Our purpose here is to do whatever it is we choose to do. That is our purpose. We make it. We live it. We always have.

Time passes; friends come and go. So many things change as they both can, and should. Indeed, passing is time’s pastime, and in recent times, a few things have become apparent that I think would have remained obscured, were it not for the ever-accelerating pace of life.

One of these is the beauty of selflessness and companionship. I actually love the word “companionship,” and I much prefer it over others like “friendship” or “relationship,” which are often made out to be synonymous with it. I don’t think they are. I don’t think they are because they fail to get at what, I think, is the most beautiful thing about the whole idea.

Friendships simply involve friends, and the word is so commonly thrown around that it renders its gravitas dilute. Relationships involve relations, which I think is an intentionally vague meaning (so as to include partners, friends and acquaintances), but I think the word also connotes a sense of transactionality that I don’t like. A friendship is about friends, but what of your relationship? You have working relationships, too. Hell, even ideas and concepts can have a relationship, and an argument could be made that, even then, a logical or informational transaction is implied to exist between them.

Companionship, though? It’s different. It’s not quite the same, both etymologically and semantically. If we take the word at face value like we have the others, it involves companions. Okay, so what? Well, this all might be one huge nitpick (but what are opinions, if not just nitpicks of different sizes). But I do think it’s different. A companion is a companion because they accompany you; they provide company, and I think therein lies the beauty of companionship.

It all comes down to the idea of being there with someone; of sharing the human experience with someone. I think this is a much more beautiful and holistic perspective, of what is a banal and almost dogmatic reality of the human experience: companionship. No one ever questions why we love our friends, or our partners. Sure, we might question it when we consider revoking this affection or care, but why do we do it at all? Why do we stick with people through the good and the bad? Why do we open the door for people? Why do we smile when we see someone else do the same? Why are some laughs just so contagious? And likewise, why are some sobs so powerful and moving, whilst others are not?

And suuure, we could sit here talking about all the evolutionary advantages and social benefits we derive from being able to emotionally read and mirror our peers, but that’s not what I’m really getting at here. Or maybe it is, and I am simply romanticizing it to a fault. I do, however, think that my case becomes much deeper when we consider profound selflessness. That is… a whole new mystery…

Why do we do things for people we care about in secret? Why do we suffer in silence for others? Why do some of us actively and willingly put ourselves in danger or hurt (both physically and emotionally) for others, who might not even acknowledge nor value our efforts? Finally, why do some of us do so even when we might not be around to witness our legacy? I guess that’s the point of a legacy…

I don’t think I’ll ever have answers to all of these, but something I’ve learned is that questions don’t need answers to be profound and eye-opening; merely asking is sometimes an answer.

It was only today that I discovered I had an urge to write my very own blog online. I knew not what it would entail. I hadn’t planned a topic or a format, but writing the first few lines felt right. It was a feeling that can only be described as innately gratifying. Maybe that was it.

From the earliest points in recorded history, to the latest articles published online, there has always been that “human urge” to document and to write. To announce to the universe one’s thoughts and experiences. What strikes me as deeply intriguing, however, is the permanence of such an urge, even in the absence of an audience. Kings and queens routinely transcribed their lives and accomplishments for future generations to acknowledge. These future generations have never been guaranteed. And yet,  we write to them anyway.

It occurs to me now that, to many people on this planet, it matters more to be acknowledged by their successors than it is to ensure there will be any successors at all. The urge to be heard is great indeed.

Perhaps it lies in an innate need to be comfortably and reliably cast aside from the universe we inhabit—to be distinct and separate from the world that formed us. Nature finds solutions to problems that come up, but intelligent life chooses its own solutions. Rocks form shapes because they happen to; because the laws of chemistry and geology dictate them. But, you need only find one particularly round pebble on the ground to immediately become suspicious of your surroundings. It is a clear, deliberate sign of life: Life that chooses its own legacy.

We crave control of our legacy and how we are remembered, but we seldom worry if we will be remembered at all. Once we worry about this, we panic. Should we panic? I think this fear should be tempered with another thought: We can barely remember our own lives and past experiences, but we are still formed by all of it nonetheless. Perhaps everything you will ever come into contact with—every person, every place—will continue on as an indirect testament to what you were, and what you did. These persons and things might not acknowledge it per se, but their lives and future interactions will. The universe will remember us, but the universe cannot speak.

From this, I reckon, it might be enough. I definitely hope it will be.

But people live and grow; they gather new life experiences. They would be doing themselves a disservice by not adjusting their values and beliefs. It is because of this that I deeply believe in the value of civil discourse and food for thought. If nothing else, let this blog serve as a testament to my growth—a testament directed not necessarily at others, but at myself.

I will strive to grow, so that my past selves become unrecognizable; this will be the beginning of that journey.

My blog will be separated into chapters, each of which will include an arbitrary amount of entries. Entries may be rearranged and moved to different chapters as the blog goes on. As a result, entries will have their own titles, serialized with a quick label that will take the form C#E#, with the C and E representing “chapter” and “entry,” respectively. Chapters may overlap chronologically. You might think of them as separate streams of consciousness.

It’s not entirely necessary for my blog to have chapters, but stories have chapters, and our lives are much like stories. It seems only fitting for my blog to have the same.

Entries may or may not include sources and links to further reading. Opinions are my own and mine alone, but they are subject to change. All information should be considered anecdotal to some extent, unless indicated otherwise.