I remember the one moonlit night. The night that I first became aware. The night that I, as a thinking, feeling, understanding, conscious being was born. It was a full, white, and ominous moon looking back down at me. It guided me into the light of existence and I began to see the world around me as something that could be comprehended. It was no longer the buzzing, whirring confusion of infanthood. It was now beginning to take shape in my mind. My mind, in turn, was beginning to take shape of itself and became sentient.
Recalling thoughts, long past, through the white haze of memory, my contemporary consciousness elicits forgotten experiences. As awareness made its progress into understanding, the world became organized and the pieces of that great puzzle were able to be defined (even if they were, not yet, able to be fitted together.)
The trees in the darkness seemed to obscure parts of the moon as the entourage of my mother and sister passed under autumn stripped branches. But its light continued to seep through to meet my eyes in an intimate transfixiation. Unlike any other beauty, this moon was the first. Breaking through non-understanding, it became in my mind the first conceptual package that would be the basis for all future contemplations. At this moment, as it passed from hazy, ill-defined, lit, confusion into shaped, clear, discernment, it was, simply, the most beautiful experience I have ever had.
At this one instant, all things were possible. At the beginning of experience, the infinity of all possible experiences still exists. I was only beginning to leave The Garden to venture out into the world of rational thought, but at the moment of the transition it seemed that nothing could compare to the wonder of experience and knowledge. I wanted more, and was excited by life's adventure. The moon reflected the sun's light, not unlike a mirror, making it possible to see most of the same details at night that one would see during daytime hours. Almost surreal in this night's appearance, my thinking began to take hold and I realized my own existence. The light of understanding hit my retina and illuminated my soul.
Novel perceptions abound and are continuously impacting my mind. Playing in my sandbox in the back yard of my house, many adventures of imagination ensue from my construction of miniature landscapes. As yet, I do not fully grasp the difference between what is "real" and what is not. For my own amusement, the experiences that I dream on my own are just as fulfilling and exciting as those that come from without.
The sand surrounds me with its endless forms. It can be molded to any shape that I desire. Here a castle, there a river, a hill, a meadow, a world of plastic reality. No stone lies here in my world of play. The sand takes whatever shape my hands afford. There are no limits to its potential.
Everything is new, and it is good. Oblivious to the harshness of things beyond my realm (my sandbox,) my innocent playtime provides me with a wide open door to what can be. Alone in my bliss, my mind is curious about the workings of reality (my reality.) No matter what investigations I pursue, interest is always satisfied and a feeling of security is prevalent.
No worries. No responsibilities. No problems. The world (my world) makes sense. The many possibilities of future endeavor are all of them probable and I begin to pick and choose various paths and directions. The genesis of projects take hold and the sand begins to take shape. Hope abounds. Anything is possible. Any thing can still, yet, come to be.
I wander and meander through my grandfather’s garden, observing all the plants and insects as they blow in the summer’s breeze. So many things to see here in this small microcosm of reality. I can smell the daisies as they bloom in the rising sun’s warmth. I can feel the tingling of blades of grass as they tickle my bare feet and move in recoil of my weight upon them. I can hear the buzzing of the bees, their sacs full of the pollen that the flowers produce for them in their intimate dance: their cosmic relationship made manifold. The varying array of flora blast my eyes with every possible colour of the spectrum of light to which human eyes are sensitive. My tongue tastes of the sweet air that lingers about the fruit and waits for its turn to begin the creation of life one more time; to fall to ashes and rise again.
The abundance of phenomena beyond my thoughts is awesome. The plethora of colours and shapes; almost incomprehensible. The world is a magnificent garden of wonder. Some times it seems simply too much to take in at one time. An infinity of splendors hitting my senses overloads my mind with reality. How could all these things be? How could I be here, right now, experiencing them? Is there any end to this kaleidoscope of being?
When I close my eyes, the visual world vanishes, and yet reappears when I again open them. Did the world of my eyes cease to be, only to be recreated as I looked at it a second time? For a moment, reality itself was dark. The world that I perceived was changed by the way in which my own body received the sensational information that was buzzing about me. My world is at the mercy of my eyes. My reality is what I perceive.
Even more odd, is the way in which this garden presents itself to me when I am in different moods. When I am angry at the bee for stinging me, I see less of garden as a whole, and concentrate solely on the stinger lodged in my skin. When I have no fears or apprehensions, my consciousness wonders and I seem to be able to take in the whole garden at once, seeing all the little details, the snails, the soil, the air, the sun, the geraniums, and the compost, all simultaneously. When I am sad, I do not see anything at all but my own inner world of despair and solitude. When I am afraid, I open my eyes to all possible avenues of escaping it. When I am feeling differently, the world around me seems different. Even my self seems different depending upon what I am thinking or how I am feeling. My mind wonders at the endless possibilities of phenomenal being and I am overwhelmed by its grandeur.
Playing with existence and time itself, I discover how my whole experience is dependant upon my own thoughts and feelings. I learn that what I am thinking affects what I am experiencing. I begin to see the relationship between my mind and my world. Thinking things are real experiences too.
What do I know? What is knowledge? Is enough knowledge comprehension? I may be aware of a thing, but yet still not understand it. As I look down at my grandfather’s remains, I realize that I do not understand what this bulk of matter means. I know it (I knew him) but I was never afforded the opportunity to understand what “him” was.
Understanding is beautiful and desirable. It takes effort to understand and through this effort, we live and know why we live.
My grandfather’s body is here, but he is no longer here. That which made this grouping of matter self aware and able to see the world is no longer functioning.
I may never be able to truly know what “he” was: what that meant. I may never be able to know anything really (all that I have experienced is unique to me simply as the set of sensational input that has made up this ride of consciousness that I am on.) But even so, I may be able to understand. That is, I may be able to see the multiple possibilities of the universe, while not knowing which one is actually the case. But being aware of the possibilities is like “knowing” each case altogether. Understanding all possible worlds allows for the embracing of existence for what it is. By knowing what possible turns the ride might take, I understand the ride for what it is (for what possible things it can do and possible places it can take me) and am prepared for eventualities and can then enjoy it. By understanding the limits and boundaries of what the ride can do, I can play around with it more, and enjoy myself to a greater degree. I can push those limits and make a few of my own. I can expand the ride just a little (stretch it this way and that) enabling those riding behind me to find this extra bit of thrill and enjoy their experience that much more. Understanding is the seed of all interest.
What I don't already know is frightening to me. All possible scenarios could occur and of those possibilities, a great many of them are undesirable. It is a risk to accept that some unwanted possibilities could occur, but the possibility of goodness also exists. If the risk is not taken, you are safe and do not need to worry about the bad, but you will also never achieve the good.
How will I know how far the limits of existence reach unless I try to find them? How can any of us be happy simply accepting what we already have; accepting existence as is. If we do not expand our horizons and push the limits farther, we will loose interest and the reaction of life and thought will die.
But it is hard to travel near the Wall (let alone climbing over it.) How can we know how to get over it? No one has done it before, and there are no guides. If I make it over what will I find there? Will I be able to find my way back? If I find something interesting will I be able to show it to the others? What if I become lost and am unable to return back to the ordered world of understanding? What if I go mad? What if I die?
I still think it is worth the risk to be able to find new beauty and new happiness. Beauty can only be found in the new understanding of the unknown. Only in that which we do not already know (the chaos) can we find wonderment. I do not try to know what I already know because I know it. And that which I do not already know, I will eventually know, because I know where to look: it can be found in the deepest recesses of the soul. Pushed far enough, and reaching up high enough, we may be able to stretch just enough to touch something almost beyond our grasp. The unknown, the chaos, the disorganization, the darkness; it lives inside each of us, inside each of our minds. It may seem frightening and dangerous, but only because we are not able to decipher its language. With enough practice and experience with it, though, we may be able to understand a little bit more of its puzzle.
And so, into the deep my pathway leads me.
Why am I here? How did I get to where I am? What are all these things that are happening to me? I don't understand. They are so jumbled in my head. In a magnificent deluge of crossing thoughts I, that thing, that essence, that sum of all thoughts, the thing that is thinking, the grand category of all existence: I am lost.
What will be happening to me henceforth? Will it be good? Will I be able to manage that which has not yet come to pass? Has all that is worth having happened already done so? I am faultering. I am doubting. I am unsure of myself. I am out at sea without a compass and the stars are clouded over. I am lost. I am sitting down in my apartment at art school. I am surveying the collection of books that I have read, and some that I have not. I am considering these many words and analyzing their worth. These are the ideas of all those before me. Here lies the hints humanity has to offer towards solving the puzzle. And yet none of them are able to describe this instance, this moment, this experience. None of them can tell me what it is to be. None of them are able to unravel the tangled knot of paths that lie before me and aid me in my descisions to choose the one that will become my life. I am lost.
I am pondering the vastness of reality, my place there, and how it has all come to be. That at once there was nothing, and now everything, but that at some moment, as yet unrealized, the stuff of creation will return from whence it came. Oblivion approaches. I am uncertain as to my readiness. I still have many corridors to explore. Watching my every move, ready to pounce, Death is my secret admirer. I realize the abyss, and understand the bubble. I am lost.
What are the stars? Where are they going? They have always been there. Do they too wonder how they ended up in that specific, that exact point, in the night sky? Are they concerned, as I am, that they will at any moment be blown out of existence, out of the great game (the great experience) back into the ineffable? I am here, now, existing, thinking, worrying, dreaming. I have in my grasp, this essence of being. What is that worth? What should I do with it? I am lost. I am lost. I am lost. Yes, yes, yes. I know that I am lost. The experience is interesting. At moments it is beautiful. At others, it is frightening. I am existing, experiencing, understanding, and remembering. I am realizing what it is that is happening. I am understanding my situation. This is what is happening, and simply this. This is all that life is: this very moment. This experience is all that is. This is life. This is direction. This is destination: departure and arrival. This is the nexus of all phenomena. This is my dream. This is me. This is.
This is because I am. All that I am can be found in this. Thisness. This. This is it. I am no longer as lost as I once was.
I still do not really know what to make of everything, sitting here, being here. I am not sure I have any answers, or that there even exist any answers to be had. But I know that to make an effort, to be experiencing something (anything,) that is at least what living is. To try and accomplish something (whatever it is, it does not matter); to care, to be passionate, to make an effort; this is embracing life and knowing it (understanding it and loving it and realizing its beauty: the beauty of creation and (temporal) existence.) There is only now, and nothing can take this moment’s beauty away. No bit of reasoning, or logical proof can take away the feeling (the experiencing) of a moment’s beauty. There, in the moment, life, freedom, love, and understanding all are manifest. They exist, they are real, and they are beautiful and they are good.
At least I know what it is to live, and, so, I can continue on living. I have a better idea of what my place is in the world, and that is comforting. To understand (a little bit better) what is going on in this white haze of existence is relieving. Having a piece of the puzzle fall into place and be aware of its fitting (its organization and its sensedness relative to the whole) is a good feeling to say the least. I am happy to know these things, to understand these things, to be aware of these things. I want to continue living and exploring. I want to find my way through the white haze to the other side of existence and know what it was to have traveled through that confusion. I still want to be.
Sitting at home, on my couch, I am playing a videogame and trying my best to beat all the levels, but I keep making mistakes and failing. Again and again, I cannot seem to progress through this game. I am no longer having any fun (any pleasure) and am finding myself more and more frustrated. Still I cannot improve. The more I become frustrated, the less attention I pay to the game, and the worse I become at playing it. And so the vicious circle goes to the point that I become openly angry at the little piece of metal and plastic that is causing me so many troubles.
My parents yell down to me from up the stairs to stop yelling at the devilish machine. I catch myself and realize that indeed I was yelling out loud at the technology which could never hope to comprehend what I am saying or the agony that I am in. Why do I think that losing my temper will help? Or perhaps I could not help it, as I became angry it was beyond my control (I did not realize I was getting angry until I already was.) It is very foolish and embarrassing, and thinking about how I have been behaving, I become even more angry with myself. I need to stop. I need to breath. I need to quit concerning myself with that which angers me. I am putting the game away. I am walking upstairs to get something to eat. I forget myself and chew on some crackers. I am feeling better. I am disappointed with myself for letting my emotions take over myself.
Not many things exist that can enrage me, but they do exist. Things that I expect to be a certain way, but result not, simply irritate me. The workings of the computer in front of me encapsulates this point exactly. Anticipating a certain outcome, and knowing that the computer follows logical rules, the outcome should necessarily occur. But some times, this is not the case. With no logical explanation for this anomaly, and in desperate need of the end result, my muscles become tense, my blood pressure rises, and my teeth are clenched. If only the computer would tell me why. Why? Why won't it work properly? Please work! Please! But it doesn't hear my pleas, and continues to muck-up my business. This is the definition of anger for me.
As we become able to share our feelings, we are no longer alone in the world. Some may be able to transfer their thoughts to another through speaking; through words. Others may find it necessary to represent their idea visually, with paint or sculpture or design. Perhaps others find ideas of interest in the stimulation of taste buds? Whatever the medium of communication, languages enable us to share our experiences with those of others. We are able to learn what could not be experienced in our lifetimes by simply swapping one life with another, doubling the number of things we are able to know.
But a language is only useful as far as there exists a method of interpreting it successfully. If the language cannot be understood, then the ideas are lost. If we store our ideas in a computer databank, we must retain the ability to decipher the bumps (the ones and the zeros) or else the language is useless and the thoughts that were stored away, outside the mind, die and loose all their energy. If an idea does not reside in a mind (e.g., only in the pages of a book) then it is not an idea. Until some mind opens the book and transfers the written language into mental experience, the idea is in limbo (that is, it is still en route from the writer’s mind to that of the reader, and is still as yet to become a full fledged idea.) It is still possible to become an idea if someone finally understands it. But until it is understood, it cannot be said to be part of the mental world. If a tree falls down in the middle of the forest and no one is around to hear it, the tree does not make a sound.
And so, language is the stepping stone from one side of the river to the next. It is not the idea itself, but the bridge which allows for the passage of ideas across the void from one mind to another. If no one travels across the bridge (if no one actually uses it,) then the bridge is useless. When attempting to transfer an experience to another mind, be sure to provide a road map that leads up to the bridge before hand, so that the near-sided, who cannot see the bridge in the distance, may be enabled to reach it as well, allowing the bridge to become more greatly used and allow more lost souls to enjoy the other side of the river that you were able to cross.
Trying to push the boundaries of thought, beauty is manifest in the short period of realization that is brought on from the transference of information from the unknown chaos (resultant of entropy) to the heated organization of thought-induced complexity. Being a warm-blooded creature of the hot-loving chain-reaction of the ordered universe, naturally I find pleasure in the intensification of stagnated and frozen matter; reintroduced into the decaying embrace of ever changing life.
Passions wrap themselves around my soul as I am wrapped around those of others’. The other minds that I have touched are precious to me. In their eyes I play with them and share with them my experiences and in turn they share their own. We each help one another gain a different glimpse of the world around us. Through each other’s eyes, we are able to see a richer world, full of complexities and beauties. I care deeply for those shared experiences and ideas. I care for the differing viewpoints and alternate understandings. I wish to know more of them and would hate to see them fade away.
Two minds come together in a bond of mutual understanding: understanding that each are a unique, highly complex, arrangement of stardust formed and molded in such a way that a new dimension of existence is manifest in its design. Inside the dreams and thoughts of the chemical reaction lie new qualities and new possibilities. We each contain our own doorways to unique constructions of thoughts and matter. We are each a special piece of the universe able to understand itself. It is a sad day when one of us passes away; a certain aspect of the ever-growing ideal world dying. But with the renewal of the mental food chain, new minds, and new thoughts, the psychological reaction is able to continue its existence.
Looking about me, I find it hard to follow the path. I do not know what lies at the end of the path. I am frightened. I am loosing confidence that following this pathway is the right thing to do. I realize that I do not know what the right thing to do is. I realize that I do not even know what “the right thing to do” means! Darkness creeps across the landscape. I feel alone. I don’t want to move anymore. I don’t care about anything around me. I want to block out the rest of the world and just stay where I am, inside my own world of dreams and ideas. I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.
I close my eyes, and a great expanse of gridded lattice engulfs my inner visual world. My waking dream takes the form of a vanishing point at which all lines converge and become one. Reds and blues and yellowish white light flow down these lines to a central meeting and then fizzle away to make room for newer flows of this energy.
Fireflies buzz in and out of my field of view. I am unable to focus on any one of them, but together they create a sort of evenly distributed pattern of dancing light which is soothing. Watching these frolicking lights bounce about the open expanse of my dream, I am lost in its beauty and, for the moment, forget the world without.
As I concentrate harder, I am able to make the dim imaginations become brighter to the point that their intensity is that of those colours that are perceived outside in the world of my body. Brighter and brighter my inner world becomes until it seems to me just as real as anything else that I have experienced. The fireflies change and become the refracting light poking through the maze of reflections in crystal symmetry. Through the endless pathways of primsmatic entrapment, the light that escapes to meet my eyes is that of every conceivable colour in the rainbow. I can see, in one instance, the palette of God and know with what possible beauty the world was created. This primordial data from which all visual experience is constructed encapsulates all possible aesthetic value that could ever be had.
It is difficult to turn away; to open my lids and return to the more ordered and specific world of my body. I am lost in my own imagination. Inside my own mind, anything is still knowingly possible. I can see all that I want to see, and not what I am forced to observe. Inside my mind, I am God. How can I go back to that other realm of hardship and struggle? The brightness and excitement inside are so much more fulfilling.
Is this world of mine really meaningful? If this is what I call my life, is that enough? Seeing what can be is not the same as seeing what is. This abstract set of possible experiences is no one experience on its own. To really live (that is, to experience) is to be in a specific place, at a specific time, and experience a specific array of senses. This fabricated world of my mind is the experience of possibility (a sort of specific experience which is useful to indulge from time to time) but it does not encompass experience. With my life (my one opportunity to be and to embrace) I want to see what is really out there (for my mind can really only conjure up a small subset of those possibilities that are outside.) The world (of the body) may be less perfect or less bright, but it is also less derived and less copied and less known. Existence in that world is a privilege simply because it contains the possibility of the unknown. How could I know how good that world could be if I do not even know it all? I think that it is worth investigating and learning about. And I won’t have a second chance to do so. My self, my identity, that which I am is the set of experiences and thoughts that are contained in this directory of existence. I am the sum total of that which I have done, really. Even those occasions on which I have delved into the inner world of imagination, I was really experiencing an inner experience in the outer world. So, what matters lies out there, and I am what happens in here. What a psychotic episode this whole experience really is!
How have all these memories accumulated in my consciousness? I remember some things, and others I simply remember that they once were; yet I cannot remember their actual details. How could all these great many things have happened to me? It is a strange and wonderful experience, this thing we call existence. Where once there was nothing, and where there will eventually be not, now there is all this stuff! How did all this suddenly take shape in this crazy world? I recall walking with my mother to the grocery store at night and seeing the moon through the branches of the trees; it's beauty impressing itself upon my mind. I remember the sandbox, the adventures of creation. Lego, snow forts, woodland hikes, swimming, French, zoos, playgrounds, school, friends, food, discoveries, loss, happiness, love, depression, anger, beauty, and understanding. All inside my head, somewhere, retrieved and experienced within consciousness. The greatest gift of life must be the record of its experiences in memory. To be able to remember that first experience and recall the newness, the firstness of it. You can only fall in love for the first time once. But you can remember that first time as many times as you desire. What a wonderful ability!
Thinking back, I remember the innocence of youth. I remember its carelessness and non-existent responsibility. I live now in a world of understanding and learning. I have the knowledge to see the possibilities and understanding what hope really is. My world is somewhat more limited and less fresh as a result. But I also know that I once lived in the Garden, and that it was good. I may be banished, now, forever, but the experiences I took with me have been worth the sacrifice. And with greater understanding, comes greater awareness of other possible experiences which could not have been possible otherwise. The intellect may divorce innocence from the soul, but it brings with it its own array of experiences and goodness. And with the faculty of memory, I will never need to look for that innocence again, because it still exists in the depths of my mind. My memories define who I am. Those things that I remember, those images that I conjure in my mind's eye, those events and experiences that I know I once had, those are what I am. If they could be manifest as a physical thing, I could point to them and say "there I am", "that's me." Without them, I am nothing more than an instinctual animal: vessel within which my genes may propagate. It has been a long ride, and I still have far to go, but thus far I have had some fun on it. The bumps and swerves that I have rolled through were scary at times, but I have enjoyed them overall. The thrill of the ride is exillerating and the not knowing what will be happening next has been daunting at times. But I've lived through it. The ride hasn't killed me yet. I may still fall off the tracks, but for the bit of rails that I can see ahead of me, I believe that the ride will continue.
Looking behind me, I can see the twisted track that I followed up until now, and I can look ahead at what is to come with a toughened resolve. I can take it. I will prevail. I am who I am, and this is my ride. I am damned well going to enjoy it no matter what happens, and no other ride can interfere with my satisfaction.
My life, my ride, will be a memorable one regardless.
How did all this happen? How did this construct of experiences manifest itself around this thing that I call myself? What is going on!? I see this twisting, swerving, vacillating influx of sensory entrés. I taste of this and I embrace of that. It is a buffet of deserts, and it is consistently within my reach.
I am looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. This representational image of refracted light is a strange organization of photonic energy. It responds to what I respond. It moves as I move. And yet it is not me, and it is me at the same time. Seeing into my own eyes, I look into the perceiver gazing into my own gaze. I am transfixed with the thought of my identity. What does it mean to see one’s soul?
With the doubting of everything outside, with the questioning of all that is real, I find myself just as real as anything else in reality. I don’t care if my friends are real (or unreal) because they are still just as human as I am. Life is not about what it means to be real (that is, what it means to exist) but what it means to be human (what it means to live; what it means to feel; what it means to embrace the great experiences of time; what it means to wonder; what it means to love; what it means to work and what that work will be.)
Life is nothing but a white haze. It is a great confusion and then I die. At first there is black nothingness, then this white haze (possible somethingness) and then I will return to the black depths of oblivion. That’s it. Living is the act of experiencing the reality around me. And by experiencing, by living, I am able to realize myself; to realize what it is to be a human being; to be a thinking thing in the vastness of the universe, here, now, experiencing it, and being able to realize its grandeur; to realize that there is this white haze of stuff that is happening. Without this happening, there is not life, there is only void, black, nothingness.
Why do I create art? Why do I live? What's the point in simply existing? I exist to live. I live to create art. I create art to explore my humanity; to see how deep it goes; to see what it means; to know myself. Before I die I should at least know myself. But it is difficult, and there are no instructions. There are guides. There are those who have come before me who struggled with the same problems and wrote down, at least, what they were able to find out so that I can now learn and begin my journey of exploration with a boat instead of venturing out into the sea (the unknown) with nothing but a raft (that is, they have provided me with some tools and maps (however misdirected they may turn out to be) that I can make use of in my adventure into the deep.)
Maybe life is pointless. But I should at least realize its pointlessness and move on. That is, realizing the situation for what it is allows me the freedom to live life for what it is. That is, I can live life, because nothing is left to hold me back: no worries, no confusions, no second guesses, and no insecurities. Clearly understanding life is valuable, but I can't know it. I'll never know. I don't know what's going on, and never will (understanding what is possible is quite different from knowing what is.) But who cares?
Eventually this ride of mine will come to an end, and I will return from whence I came. As my existence fades, I will approach nothingness once again. At one time there was nothing, and once again nothing will return. We only live once. We have but one verse in the epic of human life, and that verse will, at one point, be over and the epic will continue on after it. What will our verse be? What will we contribute to the great work of civilization? Will my existence have even made a difference to the grand scheme of things, or will I fade away to nothingness, having lived for nothing, never having really existed at all?
I am now alive, so I should live. I won't be able to do it again. I should experience to my heart's content. With such limited time I should try to get my money's worth. This crazy reality, this world, this universe, this plain of existence, is here and simply is. I am a very small part of that grandness, but I have the chance to affect it. From within my small little world of understanding and experience, from within my own thoughts, I can go out and affect the larger world. I can change it, make it different than it was based on my own feelings and ideas. I can let others, for generations to come, know what it is that I thought about this great ride. I can share my experiences and share my understanding, letting others in on my bit of my solution (the small piece of the puzzle that I was able to fit into the great jigsaw) so that they can be able to build upon that success and have a head-start themselves at finding the overall solution. I cannot let these ideas be lost in oblivion.
I appreciated the records and stored data that has been accumulated throughout the history of civilization. The ideas of my ancestors has aided me in developing my own ideas. I have been able to build upon their part of the puzzle, and contribute something new to the rest of my brethren. I may not be able to solve the metaphysical problems, I may not be able to tell you where neutrinos come from or how the universe began, but if anything I can show you beauty, I can show you a few novel experiences, and I can explain why these novel experiences are worth having. Even if this is all that I am able to do for the rest of my species, I believe that it is worth it. Even one, new, novel, never been had before, experience is worth having, and that if nothing else, can be my gift to our race.
Before I pass out of existence and return to nirvana, I hope that I can leave behind some evidence of experiences worth having. That is, I can show others the switch-tracks to take on the ride that will be more enjoyable than others; more worthwhile. All there is, is the ride, but some parts of the ride are more worth it than others. I hope that it is these parts that I can highlight and let people become aware of themselves so that they can look forward to and have some bit of experience that is good on their own rides. Because in the end, we all return to nothing. In the end, all we have is what we got out of the ride. In the end, all we have is ourselves. In the end, there is only the end.