All the Leaves Are Brown

I can’t help myself! I am perpetually pondering the meaning of life and the purpose of my existence. I suppose that I can blame this on my parents, but I don’t see that as allaying the obsession. The objective, rational part of me (if there is one) tells me that it really doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’m part of a society that defines my role and purpose. I am to be a productive, contributing member insofar as conformity will allow. I’m obviously not called upon to think or be creative, because if that was my role I would already be in a position of leadership or celebrity. No, my productive contribution seems to be to work, earn income, and support the State. Rather than providing any answers, turning 60 seems to have just exacerbated the dilemma. Because of my disease, I cost more to keep alive than I earn. Because I have already made my contribution toward two beautiful human beings in the world, I’m no longer needed to reproduce. And I am not alone. I suspect that there are multitudes who ask the same questions I do, who arrive at no better answers, and so experience the process of life as rather mundane. While it’s flattering to think of myself as a child of God, there is absolutely nothing unique or extraordinary about that. And isn’t that our cultural goal, to be unique and extraordinary? Follow the money to answer that question. And so here I sit, an old man in 406-2, digesting my lunch and contemplating an afternoon of earning my keep as a desk jockey. Where in the world did that “you are the light of the world” crap come from?