Sometimes it’s a lot. Sometimes you feel like here and there are too distant, that anything like progress died with the invention of the smartphone. You begin to require more to get through the day because every time you wake up it’s gonna be a long one. Your coffee expenditures outweigh your data plan and your liquor consumption…let’s not talk about that. And it hurts and you’re tired and every year you waver on a thinner line, knowing that there’s nothing special about survival other than the fact that it seems the survival instinct is being diluted by the way we use technology. You’re hardly surprised. You’ve stopped thinking about survival, partly because you’ve seen their obsession with apocalypse. It’s stopped making sense. It stopped making sense when people were more concerned about being right, about being seen. You’ve watched them collect their profile pic protest photos like baseball cards and Left Behind books. You’ve watched them…
“Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he was. For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been his father’s son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to, he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak?
Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmly concentrated. He felt: This had been the last tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back.”
— Siddhartha, by Hesse
So these scientists go to Antarctica and they’re like, studying these penguins. Observing their behavior and shit, and they see this one penguin flop out of the water and start waddling toward the mountains. They know this isn’t normal because that isn’t where the fish is. They know the penguin is going to starve and die, so they turn this penguin around, back around so he’s facing the ocean and the fish and his awkward penguin friends but you know what this guy does? This penguin turns around and starts waddling toward the mountains. Like he already knows where the fish and his friends are but he doesn’t care. He’s gotta get to those mountains even though he’s the only penguin doing it, even though his friends all think he’s crazy, even though he’ll probably starve and fucking die.
Pretty fucked up shit if you ask me.
We don’t need you.
I don’t get to say shit like this often, because I’m too nice. Or too awkward. I don’t like making waves, it’s uncomfortable. I shop at Old Navy and I’m not boring, I just don’t care. But listen, I’ve had two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, and I’m not saying this because I’m drunk, I’m saying it because I want to. I’m happy about it, actually; fuck. We don’t need you. And it’s so good to realize that.
You know I threw the last thing you sent me away. Just put it in the fucking garbage. Then I swept my floor, and I cleaned my counters, and when I sprayed the cleaner on them it smelled so fresh – so new. I scrubbed them harder than normal because I enjoyed how good it feels to clean sometimes, and after I was done I let the dog out and I did not look at the fucking garbage and I knew that we were done and we would make it without you. So how does that feel?
Does it feel as good as you thought it might?