Reaching ever upward from the dirt of our graves, trying to get just a tickle of precious sunlight on but the tips of our fingers.
Captain Picard explained mankind once, that we strive, that we have a capacity to reach outside ourselves, do things much larger than ourselves. This is a transcendent concept, placing Picard beside Thoreau and others in the older canon of American literature. Beside the guy that said, “no man is an island”.
Let me shed some light. A man is a man. If he is standing on the ocean floor, surrounded by water, he is STILL NOT AN ISLAND. Instead, he is wading, and not far from shore, at that.
Can you feel it? Can you reach out and touch it? But its just a dream, so much vapor, impossible to hold to.
Man has his redeeming moments, tho. iphone, model t, corolla, honda civic, the Mona Lisa, AW Tozer.
And we are pulling dirt onto us, from within our graves, everyday, unwittingly hastening the end. Our lives of “quiet desperation” are quixotic, paradoxical. We are literally killing ourselves to live, hurting ourselves for a better quality of life. 9.20 an hour at the Foxconn plant, biting back on ourselves, restraining ourselves, 10-12 hours a day.
Grasp strive, reach as for something attainable only by struggle, perhaps a stretch of your very consciousness!
RASP: to rough a piece of wood in your shop
ASP: the snake that killed Antony and Cleopatra
SP: Habla Espanol?
P: The bitter end. No butter roll for you, my lad.
FADE TO BLACK
And so another has departed this mortal coil. Nothing more to strive for, nothing for which to reach out.