An image of the lost souls in Bunuel’s film, “The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie” as they stroll along the country road, wondering, “What in hell are we doing…here?” And well might we ask, all of us, what are we doing here? Nothing at all. There is nothing to do. There is nothing to accomplish. There is no end. There is no goal. Look to the slimy things of the mud, the crawling vermin of the forest floor, the mayflies that live a few hours, the barnacles – look to them for the answer. Don’t hold your breath waiting for a reply.
Make a list of things to do, cross them off happily, flush will a feeling of accomplishment as you do them…and the list grows back. One damn thing after another…until you’re dead, that is. Personally, I find this liberating and uplifting. It means you cannot fail. You cannot do the wrong thing in life. There is no standard against which you can be measured when your ‘success’ and ‘failure’ is toted up in the end. Not a very Calvinist view, not too sympatico with the Saint Peter at the Gate judging you point of view. It just means that whatever you do with your life is okay, as long as you think it’s okay – do you?
It also means that any person’s life is just as good, as full, as worthwhile, as valuable as any other’s. Compare the affluent life of a New York city professional to that of a street beggar in Bombay – no question of which life most people would prefer to have as their own, but that’s not the point I’m making. Anyone who would say that the beggar’s life is less of a life than the bourgois’ is wrong, I’d say. Is the life of one bird, one bug, one blade of grass ever worth more than that of another? No, who would bother to even try to evaluate such nonsense! We are no different. If anyone’s life has value, all lives are equal.