A funeral yesterday is a reminder of how flitting life is.
When I was younger, I thought I had all the time in the world. Now I feel like I have no time at all. A year goes by and I wonder what I accomplished. Did I do the things that matter? Should I spend my time doing something else? Should I pursue writing a book before I die?
There is more expectation in today’s world to accomplish something noteworthy, to be YouTube famous, have a million followers on Instagram, or something like that. Our identity and our satisfaction is tied to something outside of us.
In the old days, in the American society generally rooted in Judeo-Christian values that is, people were satisfied to live a life pleasing to God and fellow man. Our identity and our satisfaction is tied to a general sense of God’s expectations (not that everyone was a Christian). I was a part of the end of that era before the age of the internet that changed life dramatically. Now we are in post-post-modern times, I don’t even know what that means really.
My point here is, how do I want to live? What do I pursue? I resist the cultural norms of the American dream of retiring to play golf in Palm Springs. No gathering seashells on the beach. Then what do I want? Specifically that is. Is writing a book the best use of my life?