Up in the clouds, Australia.
The world isn’t made to be seen or heard. It couldn’t give less of a shit. The world is simply there, living and breathing and nurturing and prospering and growing, but it couldn’t give less of a shit nonetheless. To it, you could be dying, weeping, drowning and the world would be indifferent. It’s ugly just as much as it’s beautiful. And so are you.
We take clues from nature to signify the metaphysical, the golden ray cascading through a crack in the cloud, a sign that surely something greater is out there somewhere, looking after us, giving us meaning to something we’re doing. Because maybe the fear isn’t that the world doesn’t care, it’s maybe that it can’t care. Or maybe we’re so selfish that we can’t bear the thought of simply existing, we must have a deeper meaning, we’re that significant.
And so we pretend the world cares by looking, searching, pursuing for something, anything. Beauty in the ordinary, evidence of our deities. We say meaning is found if you follow these steps. You sit quietly and listen to the world, you consume the meandering, rambling thoughts of ancient epic writers, you have to reject the trifles of life, greed, sadness, pain. But who says a YouTube video about goats jumping on a dog is less profound than Shakespeare’s sonnets? We make observations about the world, but we cannot definitively say it is true, not because it isn’t true but because there are infinite variations of the truth, infinite perspectives of the truth, to such an extent that it parallels to the world not giving a shit.
The pretty waterfalls, idyllic coral worlds, brilliant rainbows are all there, it’s true, but it’s there because it’s there, not because a God or whoever wants us to believe in a deeper, more meaningful connection. And so I say to myself, why not just create the world around you, do whatever in your world, while you share the physical world with others, your world is completely subjective, also it doesn’t give a shit. Find meaning, if you really want to.