The matter with matter

It appears that very few things matter.

Such is the consequence of contentment: no invention without necessity; no passion without desire; yada yada.... the Dalai Lama must be a very bored man, except, of course, boredom does not apply. Not to the likes of we who sail with the wind, we who rage with the storm and resound the stillness. We are creatures of inertia.

The great marvels of civilization are but signs of human restlessness, of malcontent, eternal monuments made to compensate for shameful mortality. Man never could face his own insignificance.

Show me a stubbornly stagnant society and I'll show you a perfectly happy one. A cosmic irony: the very quest for perfection is the one (and only) obstacle to attaining it.

My friends, nymphs and naiads, we are mayflies! Beautiful and short lived. Beautiful because we are short lived.

There is no wealth but in experience, no accomplishment but in feeling. Live to feel. And when you die, and can feel no more, let it be because you are filled to the brim with experience and must give up this shell for a larger one. What meaning has death to a life devoid of sensual, emotional experience, a life of emptiness?

So it appears that very few things matter; so let it be.