Why didn’t I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future-
” … Of course! Your blog is just another way of saying we all want to live in a hedonic present, a present where everything is easy and we suffer no consequences for making “whatever” choices we make, the moment we make them. If only more people took notice of how unsuccessful and unhappy a life would be, from adopting a living in the present moment only approach. Are we too lost in ourselves to strike a balance!”
Balance from whose perspective? Mine, that dude over yonder, or your own …
Moving forward, one of the main undercurrents to keep in mind as you skim over these posts is: To whom do you owe your greatest allegiance? Do you owe your allegiance to your yoga studio, running club, cycling team, your family, your abusive workout regime?
Life, isn’t just a competition between our now self and our future self. We have for all intents and purposes, an infinite number of future selves, all of whom potentially have competing interests and competing desires.
The question we face when deciding to do “whatever“: Do we abuse our bodies now or save ourselves for the future? Or rather, how much time and energy do we spend now and how much do we save for later in life? In both of these cases, the answer is – It depends … Dude.
... The kindness of others is all they ever wanted, the laughter of neighbors prospering in the blue light of summer. Those of the small sputtering flame and the sudden white sprung hair, who feed off envy and grow old quickly, desire largesse. The role of poor relation evokes a lack they are not apt to admit, or unbearable pity. They prefer to penetrate the giver’s effortless knack of giving they perceive as vitality, a pulsating entity that rewards the kindness of others tenfold. This they have witnessed. This they have tabulated relentlessly. The generosity of others whose spirits, like their long-legged children blossoming into a progeny of orchards and fields, flourish. Those who have never known kindness drag into the privacy of their smallness the baskets of fruit appearing year after year on their porches, to be picked apart in the hushed posture of thieves. They peel skin, probe flesh the color of honey as if the seeds will yield something other than a glimmer of sweet air rising from the roots of trees and licorice-laced, half-opened leaves. Those of the small flame, who feed off envy and grow old quickly, live out their lives hungry, glaring at themselves across the table, wife of the cruel mouth, husband of the thin broth trickling like spittle. - Cathy Song