|Courtesy of MLusk, Weather Records|
More than anything else, I've inherited ease. The ease with which I live my life is about as easy as you can get. Top 1% of easiness. Ease, ease, ease. And I am always pondering the possibility of more ease. In fact not a day goes by that I don't fixate, for at least a few private moments, on the opportunity to live in an easier place, doing easier things. It strikes me that I am wasting this great inheritance, this gift passed on from my forebears, by indulging in the extra amounts of small discomforts I insist on enduring. I think to myself oh, well, if I lived over there, I'd have it even easier! And truthfully, there is no small amount of guilt that comes along with this. It can be a big responsibility this ease, one might argue. Few people get the chance to live this sort of life, a life of quiet facility, and here I am squandering it. It could be so much easier! And wouldn't that make me happier? And wouldn't that happiness then translate into a beneficial equanimous energy I perspire into the world? Perhaps I'm doing the world a disfavor by needlessly stressing myself out.
Passion is a fyre that takes no certain small energy to keep stoked. Passion is like adrenaline in that way. It constantly needs to be piqued in order to propel. And this has a toll. Simply to keep the work going, the marriage going, the life going, when all hinges on such emphatically subtle bursts of energy, is fatiguing. When one thinks about it. When we aren't thinking about it, perhaps we're just bored.
Doubtlessly the groundwork of our culture is a notion that we are all different, unique people. But this gets sticky pretty quick. The closest I can figure to truth is that we are born us and it is entirely our choice to remain so.