This is me. I am among the anonymous millions who are born, live, and die, and whose life, work, passions and loves will probably slip into the garbage disposal of time. My energies, my works, my life -- all of it-- will be recycled to a new form to be used by the future masses like a nameless step stool. All my effort, all my will, all my dreams. I am just another stitch in the global fabric of our era, not to be noticed at all in this composition. I do not belong to myself, but a collage of individuals. What I achieve will, in the end, be irrelevant.
Then why do this at all? Why make a new attempt at reaching out to those around me? Why share what is otherwise not going to matter? Why would I put time and effort into something that will matter to few, impact even less, and inevitably become a just some tangled mess of words and photographs at the basement of time that nobody will look at? I ask myself the same thing of physicians. Why treat the already doomed to die? Maybe being human is making the best of the slow decay of ourselves and the world we grew up. Perhaps we all know we are destined for nothingness, but we might as well paint a picture on the cave walls. We might as well extend our hand out, to save or be saved, for what else is the point?
I find myself descending into a constant form of cynicism. The truth is, as a cynic, I see the underlining good. There is in fact a reason for good work, whatever that might be. We are all connected somehow, so that is why I will smile in the face of anonymity. Someone is drivin' this bus straight for a cliff, so I might as well capture it.
They say a photo is worth a thousand words. Why not attach a couple thousand more? Granted, I will probably get lazy or distracted, and write just a few words here and there. But who's counting?
