Writing Territories (assignment 8) LATE

Fear: Oblivion.

Annoyances: Narrow-mindedness.

Accomplishments: Eagle Scout. Good student. Dedicated golfer.

Confusions: Quantum physics—what’s up with that?

Sorrows: Quitting band. Not knowing what I want to do with my life.

Dreams: The American one.

Idiosyncrasies: Rubik’s Cube. Science junkie. I listen to old or obscure music.

Risks: Yo-yo-ing too hard. Once I rode my bike without a helmet.

Beloved Possessions: The golf ball with which I shot 67. Special copy of the Hobbit. These              wood carvings of mushrooms that I’ve had forever.

Problems: Procrastination (e.g. this post).

I fear oblivion: the inky black void to which we all resign ourselves. Death is part of this fear, but I’m okay with death, basically. I know that no one lives forever; those who live today are only the temporary caretakers of the world for those who’ll live tomorrow.

What I’m really upset about is the idea that I will be forgotten, that I won’t matter. So I tell myself, “Hey, David it’s alright. You will leave behind your children and friends. You will live on in them.” And that is a good argument, but eventually, those people will pass on, too.

Let’s assume that, upon my death, I become a worldwide savior, worshipped as the likes of Jesus or Zoroaster. In that instance, I would be remembered, possibly until the end of human existence. This is a comfort, but then I realize that the sun will implode in four billion years, anyway, swallowing up the Earth. At this point, you may begin to understand what I’m worried about.

It stands to reason that everything I do, everything I create, everything I am will become meaningless. All of human civilization, from the sandstone of the Pyramids at Giza to the marble columns of the Capitol, is ephemeral. What, then, is the purpose?

This is what I think about.