This morning on the way to the gym, the word “purpose” floats through my mind in big blue neon letters. Followed by “meaning.” Then “matters.”
I talk through a whole dialog about whether any of these things can be known. I remember telling the therapist once, early on, that I believed all writers put pen to paper to prove they mattered. Even the most trivial story told was a shot at trying to show that the slightest of life’s details, theirs particularly, was worthy and meaningful, despite knowing, in the long run, no one will remember anything at all. Whatever ripples their words make in the water, the pond will eventually become smooth and still again. Like glass.
At the time the therapist looked at me like there might be other reasons for writing and story telling. But I casually ignored her. Thinking back on it, I wonder what those reasons could be… Connection? Understanding? Exploration?
Those all seem like forms of seeking meaning and purpose to me. But then, maybe they are just part of being a sentient being with a brain brimming with language that can turn in on itself too cleverly.
Then it occurs to me that there more than a few horrible people who were certain of how much they mattered, what their meaning was, what purpose they had. Hitler comes to mind and I pretend to know that he died quite sure of himself.
I think, maybe it’s better not know any of those things. And that just because you can’t know doesn’t mean you don’t have any of those things.
I wonder what the therapist thinks.
When I pull into the parking lot and get out of the car, I leave the conversation behind.
It’s time to jump on a stationary bike for 30 minutes.
