Tempus Fugit (Et Nos Fugimus In Illus?)

The realities thrusts in your face from time to time by life are not always palatable. Indeed, sometimes they have all the appeal of a steaming turd. For some time now I have been haunted by the recurrent thought that, in all probability, my life will be of absolutely no consequence whatsoever in the grand scheme of things.

I will live, I will love, I will work and I will die; but after that is all done and dusted, nothing will remain. There will be nothing that will endure; nothing that will survive me; no scar on the face of posterity that people might contemplate long after its creator has ceased to be. Nothing that is either of me, from me or because of me shall remain. Nothing.

This is the possibility that I most fear and, moreover, a possibility that, with each passing moment that I fail to do anything of any lasting consequence, becomes just that little bit more real. It is the burgeoning reality slowly shaped by the action of continuously passing time on the great hunk of hypothetical possibility that was my life at birth. When all the flimsy, sandstone frivolities of my existence have been washed away in the streams of history, what will remain? Could there be a hard core of strong and sturdy stuff somewhere with in me that might resist, that might persist, and that might even change the direction of the flow, if only by a fraction of a degree? Probably not, but surely it must be everybody’s dream.

I remember reading about Rousseau and the ideas that he set down in his Social Contract. Rousseau was already dead when his war cry against oppression gave birth to a mutant child – the French revolution. It was a revolution that tore through the status quo and irreparably altered our beliefs about power and its exercise. It will not be forgotten – for better or for worse – and nor will Rousseau. His big idea gave him a form of immortality; in reality, probably the only form that is really open to any human being.

As I flit from blog to blog – like a fly flitting from wall to wall – sampling each little world before moving on, I feel overawed by what I find. I see such a frenzy of creative energy everywhere. I see people crafting beautiful stories, left to float in cyberspace for others to chance upon by happy accident. Moments in peoples’ lives crystallized and annotated for others to explore. I see people sharing thoughts and observations on the world around them and, in so doing, asking important and incisive questions about why it should be ordered in this, and not some other, way. I see people striving to find a big idea, like Rousseau's, that will make things better and joining forces with others to help them find their way intellectually. It’s an amazing thing to be allowed to watch and, indeed, even participate in.

Nonetheless, I can’t help feeling a little depressed when I see how gracefully and concisely some other people are capable of expressing their thoughts. I read about a American soldier dealing with the reality of his loved-one leaving for war and being overwhelmed by the possibility that he may not return. I thought it was beautiful. And I knew I would not be capable of writing anything like it. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would endure for as an idea in the ether of the internet, waiting for somebody else to find it. Could it outlast its author, hidden on some server somewhere, only resurface to affect some other, unsuspecting else? I honestly have no idea. OK, so it wasn’t an idea that was going to change the world or spawn a revolution, but what does that really matter in the end? As long as we leave some mark, any mark, then perhaps we have had our little victory over time, even if it will always win the war.