I mean, whether we’re the aftermath of some cosmic detonation, the handiwork of a god, or the side effect of energy so wild we can’t even wrap our brains around it, or maybe we’re running on some simulation in a server room in the middle of nowhere—it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. The point is, we’re here. We’re actually here, and that alone should do more than just blow your mind—it should send you back on your heels, give you this split-second where you actually stop gnawing at the meaning of it all and just, I don’t know, stare at your own hands and wonder how you got so lucky—or unlucky, depending on your state of mind—to exist at all.
And yeah, we’re probably never going to crack the code. If there is a code. Maybe it’s all just a mixed bag of atoms and random chances, or maybe there’s a gigantic cosmic plan and we’re the punchline. Who knows? But if there’s one thing I do get, it’s that we each get a shot at life, one freaking shot, maybe not even a blip on the radar in the grand scheme but enough to blink, taste, screw up, impact something, someone. Even if the only place your life leaves a dent is the handful of people you bump into, it’s still a dent. It still ripples, even if the universe doesn’t notice or care.
Look, the way I see it, we’re vibrating through this world, making tiny changes without even trying most of the time, and the energy swirls around us, bumps into us, and we kick it back out. So, if you actually try to make that impact a good one—or at least not a total shit show—it matters. It matters to someone or something even if your name never gets scribbled in a history book.
And all that stuff about what comes after—the carrot dangled in front of you, the promise of enlightenment, a new life, purity, or whatever flavor of afterlife you’re buying—it sort of misses the mark. All that effort just to get a cookie at the finish line? All that striving so you can get stamped on the wrist for the next round? Even assuming there’s someone out there judging, running scorecards, why would they want you to waste the whole goddamn experience staring at the scoreboard? Wouldn’t the whole point be to actually get in the game, to try, to feel all the messiness and weirdness of it, to leave the place a little different than when you walked in?
So, think about it: whether you’re all in for the scientists with their big bang or the god with a master plan, or if you’re betting on the collective consciousness of the universe, there’s this one fact that doesn’t get shaken. We’re made of old, dead stars. Actual star dust, billions of years old, in our bones and in our spit and probably stuck between our teeth. That’s not poetry, it’s just the only thing we know for sure. That even something that burned out, exploded, and vanished, it comes back again. Maybe not as a sun, maybe just as bones or ash or the half-life of a memory, but it isn’t just erased. Nothing is really gone. Dead things pull themselves together in a new shape, and you get to walk around in a body that used to be a star, and that’s just the truth.
So, whether you’re destined to rot in the dirt or go up in flames or turn your body into a buffet for the worms and the roots, or you’re convinced your consciousness floats off to somewhere new—or gets shut off, unplugged, and that’s it—the point is, right now you’re here, you’re alive, and you get to do something with it. You get to be.
And, yeah, you can go on whatever spiritual juice cleanse you want, meditate till your brain goes blank, realign your chakras, whatever, if that’s your thing. But just don’t do it because you’re dying to get a gold star in the next life. It’s about this one, right now, this split-second, this weird little window where you landed, blinking, breathing, making noise. Don’t waste it. That’s all I’m saying.
I mean, whether we’re the aftermath of some cosmic detonation, the handiwork of a god, or the side effect of energy so wild we can’t even wrap our brains around it, or maybe we’re running on some simulation in a server room in the middle of nowhere—it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. The point is, we’re here. We’re actually here, and that alone should do more than just blow your mind—it should send you back on your heels, give you this split-second where you actually stop gnawing at the meaning of it all and just, I don’t know, stare at your own hands and wonder how you got so lucky—or unlucky, depending on your state of mind—to exist at all.
And yeah, we’re probably never going to crack the code. If there is a code. Maybe it’s all just a mixed bag of atoms and random chances, or maybe there’s a gigantic cosmic plan and we’re the punchline. Who knows? But if there’s one thing I do get, it’s that we each get a shot at life, one freaking shot, maybe not even a blip on the radar in the grand scheme but enough to blink, taste, screw up, impact something, someone. Even if the only place your life leaves a dent is the handful of people you bump into, it’s still a dent. It still ripples, even if the universe doesn’t notice or care.
Look, the way I see it, we’re vibrating through this world, making tiny changes without even trying most of the time, and the energy swirls around us, bumps into us, and we kick it back out. So, if you actually try to make that impact a good one—or at least not a total shit show—it matters. It matters to someone or something even if your name never gets scribbled in a history book.
And all that stuff about what comes after—the carrot dangled in front of you, the promise of enlightenment, a new life, purity, or whatever flavor of afterlife you’re buying—it sort of misses the mark. All that effort just to get a cookie at the finish line? All that striving so you can get stamped on the wrist for the next round? Even assuming there’s someone out there judging, running scorecards, why would they want you to waste the whole goddamn experience staring at the scoreboard? Wouldn’t the whole point be to actually get in the game, to try, to feel all the messiness and weirdness of it, to leave the place a little different than when you walked in?
So, think about it: whether you’re all in for the scientists with their big bang or the god with a master plan, or if you’re betting on the collective consciousness of the universe, there’s this one fact that doesn’t get shaken. We’re made of old, dead stars. Actual star dust, billions of years old, in our bones and in our spit and probably stuck between our teeth. That’s not poetry, it’s just the only thing we know for sure. That even something that burned out, exploded, and vanished, it comes back again. Maybe not as a sun, maybe just as bones or ash or the half-life of a memory, but it isn’t just erased. Nothing is really gone. Dead things pull themselves together in a new shape, and you get to walk around in a body that used to be a star, and that’s just the truth.
So, whether you’re destined to rot in the dirt or go up in flames or turn your body into a buffet for the worms and the roots, or you’re convinced your consciousness floats off to somewhere new—or gets shut off, unplugged, and that’s it—the point is, right now you’re here, you’re alive, and you get to do something with it. You get to be.
And, yeah, you can go on whatever spiritual juice cleanse you want, meditate till your brain goes blank, realign your chakras, whatever, if that’s your thing. But just don’t do it because you’re dying to get a gold star in the next life. It’s about this one, right now, this split-second, this weird little window where you landed, blinking, breathing, making noise. Don’t waste it. That’s all I’m saying.
