I’ve been wondering something, lately―
What is the point of every thing? I know, the very popular question seems to be, “What is the meaning of life?―of our existence?” However, I am mulling over a somewhat more objective inquiry. Why us? Why our doings? Why do we continue on with life the way we do?
We create these exquisite, captivating machines, buildings, pieces of literature, artwork, entire landscapes―but, why? We send our children to school, to learn about the world’s greatest masterminds, and to practice the fruit of their labor. As if we are trying to become them, ourselves…as if it is our fate to become one of the Greats. We, humankind, create vast, intimate stories using our imagination—draw from our beautiful, enchanting galaxy, and the sorrows of which we have precipitated ourselves in order to churn them into stories. But, why these creations? Why do we even bother, at all?
From the very beginning, when man first created fire―or, perhaps, the wheel―what were we thinking? Were we doing it because we desired stimulation? Did we think it would bring us happiness?
We leave our creations for the next generation to enjoy, to criticize, to praise, to be inspired from―and they do the same for the next.
But what is it all adding up to? What is the final creation―the final analysis?
The final critique?