And You're Almost Happy, Almost Content—But Your Head Hurts
Who or what made us? Why are we here? Why doesn’t anyone or anything absolutely answer questions such as these, if there is such a thing as an absolute answer?
Well, I’ll tell you flatly that I don’t care. As long as I get what I want, as long as I’m content with whatever I don’t have, then I don’t care. So far I’ve lived a relatively satisfied life without answers—who says I can’t for the next few decades more? Life is simple. (You’re sure? I got the impression that we’re looking for something more than that ‘life is simple’ summary. A purpose, methinks?). (You did? Shut up).
This shit reminds me of a short story by Ray Bradbury called ‘The Blue Bottle’. It’s very…short, for a short story that is. Very linear: two men are looking for the fabled Blue Bottle which is somewhere in the crumbled empire of Mars. One man is driven, making the acquisition of the bottle the sole purpose of his life. The other man is just along for the ride, not caring about finding the bottle or not. What could be in this blue bottle that men did not live to speak about? According to the myths, the bottle contains whatever the finder’s heart desires. Much like a magic lamp, but this one’s found in Mars’ red sands.
After years and years of searching, the first man found the bottle. He walked a little distance away from his buddy who waves at him while taking a drag at a cigarette. He opened the bottle, and finally realized what he was really looking for all those years. The blue bottle was a scapegoat; he could not tell himself that his life was senseless and pointless and useless to anyone, even to himself. He needed a myth to tell him that, and more—to give him what his heart really desired.
The next day, his friend went to the patch of red sand where he was supposed to be. All he found was a blue bottle half-full with bourbon.
The story is sad. And it scares me.
Well, I’ll tell you flatly that I don’t care. As long as I get what I want, as long as I’m content with whatever I don’t have, then I don’t care. So far I’ve lived a relatively satisfied life without answers—who says I can’t for the next few decades more? Life is simple. (You’re sure? I got the impression that we’re looking for something more than that ‘life is simple’ summary. A purpose, methinks?). (You did? Shut up).
This shit reminds me of a short story by Ray Bradbury called ‘The Blue Bottle’. It’s very…short, for a short story that is. Very linear: two men are looking for the fabled Blue Bottle which is somewhere in the crumbled empire of Mars. One man is driven, making the acquisition of the bottle the sole purpose of his life. The other man is just along for the ride, not caring about finding the bottle or not. What could be in this blue bottle that men did not live to speak about? According to the myths, the bottle contains whatever the finder’s heart desires. Much like a magic lamp, but this one’s found in Mars’ red sands.
After years and years of searching, the first man found the bottle. He walked a little distance away from his buddy who waves at him while taking a drag at a cigarette. He opened the bottle, and finally realized what he was really looking for all those years. The blue bottle was a scapegoat; he could not tell himself that his life was senseless and pointless and useless to anyone, even to himself. He needed a myth to tell him that, and more—to give him what his heart really desired.
The next day, his friend went to the patch of red sand where he was supposed to be. All he found was a blue bottle half-full with bourbon.
The story is sad. And it scares me.
posted by Ferretti shoes at
4:21 PM
2 Comments:
I've always thought that the purpose of us being here is for other people to laugh at us when they think they have the bottom of the suck barrel, and vice versa.
...
You're insights are pretty uhm, insightful. Care to join our discussions over at the man-blog forum?
your views on life are highly inspirational. you should write a book and kick that purpose-driven life bullshit out of the bestselling lists. Xb
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