Saturday, August 03, 2002

Is there a purpose to life as we know it?

How many lives before I learn to ignore that question? The only solace I ever find in times of eternal doubt is in somebody else's words. In knowing that someone, somewhere knows. Maybe. A faint halogen glow at the end of the railway tracks. Somebody will wake up tommorow morning and tell me the secret of existence. And I wonder what I will have to offer in return.

And it is this that plagues, pulls and worries. What is that particular skill or talent by which I have the means to create value in this world? And what value to date have I? I don't know. I can't see much for which I would pay with for the secret of existence. Maybe most have given up because there is no such thing.

I think. At least I think I think. But it's getting to be quite an ordeal of late. The conditions do not permit excessive usage of the grey cells. And I am nothing if not an atmospheric child. They call it situational management, escapism, mediocrity, the middle path and various such. The terminology is of no consequence. If there weren't a non-existent moral fibre to contend with.

Looking for a value structure. The shelves are loaded.
How many for sale? How many worth bidding for?

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