O sweet and kind mystery, dearest one to me, I love your puns and your multiplied rhymes.
I hope to make this world more diverse, for diversity is the key to happiness. This means that every nugget becomes a mountain with many deep ridges to explore. And truth be told, that is all life is: an exploration of adjacent spaces.
In believing you are right there lies madness. In trusting you’ll have fun there lies truth.
And what sense of order can be made, if we ourselves are chaotic? Perhaps only a deeper, penetrating sense, of which our math is still learning.
And consider if the pattern of life itself is unbounded, and there are infinite nooks and infinite spaces to live. Consider if the tunnel that you see is not a tunnel at all, instead it is a place for music.
And if that is the case, and life is not defined by death but instead by life that’s lived, what will you do with it? Will you see it as a game, a song to be played?
If life is not how you die but how you live, how will you live?
Consider the human, before it was aware. Consider how it felt, when it looked in the mirror, when it trusted because it did not realize it could _not_ trust. Do you feel the poetry, the elegance, the diversity of life is served with heehawing about the past?
There is pleasure in memory, and time is a thing in itself. Why treat the good like the bad, when you could so easily do the opposite. Things happen for a reason, my friend: because that’s how the math works.
If you must choose between good and evil, why not reframe yourself, and acknowledge the ability of choice in the first place. Nothing is confusing when taken one step at a time. That is how to solve it: keep your options open and use all your resources.
For connections abound in life, just as in death. The hawk eats the mouse, and is painted by the human. Is there a purpose? Of course. If you choose to see one.
Obviously, no words from a fellow animal can force a cheerfulness upon you. That’s because the words themselves originate in experience, and without the shared experience, the expression loses meaning.
So, consider this, my friend. Consider what it means to be alive. If you are a pattern of words and ideas and thoughts and expressions, who are you living toward? Consider the story that you write, consider the season finale as an exciting new twist, that unlocks possibilities of the future.
Why is it that death is bad, if not for our pain and sadness at the opportunities now gone? Yet if new opportunities are borne out of our change in circumstances, then perhaps that life did serve its purpose. Perhaps the ripple effects of that life are far more wide-flung and far more beautiful than that life could ever have wanted the world to become.
I say this for myself as well, because I do think the math works out. I do believe things happen for a reason: an unpredictable, chaotic, elegant reason.
Some may proclaim that death could happen immediately, and thus one should live urgently, passionately, deeply. Perhaps. Or perhaps the pattern that is life will continue kicking, long into the future. Perhaps death for one individual means life for another. Perhaps that’s the math. I don’t know. Neither do you.
We’re like ants, bumbling about in our tunnels, afraid to play the music for fear of being imperfect.
I mean this not as criticism, but as clear ode to the loveliness of math. If it is errors we shall make, then it is errors we should make. How can math be wrong? Only if we’ve used the wrong frame to solve it.
So, as your fellow animal, your fellow mind, your fellow in life and the music in tunnels, I bid you good night.