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What Are Our Fleeting Lives Meant For
What Are Our Fleeting Lives Meant For
生为何物
生为何物
The sky remains, even without a single bird soaring across it, but it bears silent witness to each bird’s clumsy or graceful flight, to their brief and unrecorded glory. Birds leave no mark upon the sky, but they were there. How would we prove we ever existed if we never even tried to fly?
The sky remains, even without a single bird soaring across it, but it bears silent witness to each bird’s clumsy or graceful flight, to their brief and unrecorded glory. Birds leave no mark upon the sky, but they were there. How would we prove we ever existed if we never even tried to fly?
The sky remains, even without a single bird soaring across it, but it bears silent witness to each bird’s clumsy or graceful flight, to their brief and unrecorded glory. Birds leave no mark upon the sky, but they were there. How would we prove we ever existed if we never even tried to fly?
It’s late October, yet the warmth feels like spring, showing none of the classic Canadian autumn. I step outside, walking the path by the neighborhood pond, and within fifty meters, the warmth makes me shrug off my coat, draping it over my arm.
The family doctor said my sleep troubles stem from lack of exercise, so she suggested I move my body daily. I’ve since grown accustomed to my daily walks around the pond path, and gradually, my sleep has indeed improved. I’ve come to savor these solitary minutes each day.
“It’s impossible to understand this weather anymore,” the crossing guard sighs to me as I greet her with, “So warm today, huh!” She gestures to the unusual warmth and laments, “Even if someone said there’s no climate change, I wouldn’t believe them—just look at the weather.”
I smile and continue my walk, passing trees that just days ago glowed with red and gold leaves, now nearly bare, with only a few leaves clinging precariously to branches. Where thick canopies once shaded, there’s now an open view straight to the horizon.
Another year is slipping away. This cycle of leafing and baring records the years on the trees’ rings and the measure of our seasons. Nature, in its silent, endless cycle, marks time, while we measure our lives by time. But unlike nature’s ceaseless, unthinking march, life’s journey is painfully brief. I can’t help but wonder—what is the purpose of such fleeting lives as ours? Nature seems infinite; by contrast, our lives feel so minuscule.
On TV, politicians are embroiled in laughably dramatic exchanges. The U.S. is days away from electing a new president, with two sides locked in fierce, mutual accusations of stealing democracy. The theater of it all is almost unbecoming of America, the historic paragon of democracy.
On the other side of the world, Gaza is becoming a vision of hell, with countless lives numb to hope, face-to-face with death daily. And yet, the United Nations, supposedly the custodian of post-WWII order, has become a ceremonial relic, unable to curtail the inhumanity of war. It feels as if our collective moral compass has been sent backward by a century.
Meanwhile, nature is quietly staging its own rebellion against humanity’s excesses. Southeast Asia has just been ravaged by a record-breaking tropical storm; the Caribbean has rewritten hurricane records multiple times in recent weeks. There have been reports indicating the occurrence of unprecedented floods throughout Europe. In the Arctic, glaciers are melting, and sea levels are rising in ways barely perceptible to us, threatening to consume our cities in the coming decades. The shrinking glaciers are shifting tectonic stability, which may trigger more superquakes and volcanic activity in the future. But for the most part, humanity remains blissfully unaware—decades feel endless in our brief lives, stretching beyond perception.
Standing before the still pond, I watch the few remaining wild ducks drifting across the water, feeling distant from these global dramas, tragedies, and catastrophes - I can ignore them for now, yet I can’t escape my own present concerns. Should I turn left or right to return home within ten minutes to tackle work? My phone rings—it’s the school reporting my son’s mischief, and I must have a talk with him to ensure some degree of parental discipline. Both children have extracurricular activities tonight, so I need to finish my work early and arrange family dinner; the fridge is empty of vegetables and breakfast staples, so I’ll need to remind my husband to pick some up. And Halloween is tomorrow—should I ask my husband to take the kids somewhere fun, while bracing myself for the doorbell’s incessant ringing?
We’re tied up in our everyday tasks until one day, they’re no longer ours to tend to—like those sitting among the rubble, focusing solely on evading the next falling bomb, or those looking over their ruined homes, wistful for the “normal” days they once took for granted. This routine, with its endless reflection on the past, sighs for the present, and worries for the future, will end. When it does, we may feel nostalgia, regret, or sorrow, but we won’t have a way to turn back. Life, like nature, marches on in its quiet rhythm, unresponsive to our remorse, ushering us to life’s end.
If the outcome is certain to be tragic, why do we fill our lives with so much futile worry, fear, envy, fight and resentment?? What is the life that is bound to end worth?
Tagore’s words come to my mind: The sky does not bear my footprints, but I have flown across it. The sky remains, even without a single bird soaring across it, but it bears silent witness to each bird’s clumsy or graceful flight, to their brief and unrecorded glory. Birds leave no mark upon the sky, but they were there. How would we prove we ever existed if we never even tried to fly?
Ahead, someone approaches a coat draped over their arm like mine. It seems that this seemingly warm but still chilly day has called many people out of their homes. I quickened my pace and packed my question into the corner of my heart. Against the unusual warm wind of late October, I hurried back to my not-so-distant home, back to the life that was entangled in mundane daily tasks. Along the way, I carefully avoided the puddles in the middle of the path and passed by several groups of neighbours who were taking a leisurely walk together, all of whom I could not recall if I'd ever met before. They probably wouldn't be thinking about such distant questions as I am now. Whether to think or not to think is a choice that reflects different ways of existing for us.
It’s late October, yet the warmth feels like spring, showing none of the classic Canadian autumn. I step outside, walking the path by the neighborhood pond, and within fifty meters, the warmth makes me shrug off my coat, draping it over my arm.
The family doctor said my sleep troubles stem from lack of exercise, so she suggested I move my body daily. I’ve since grown accustomed to my daily walks around the pond path, and gradually, my sleep has indeed improved. I’ve come to savor these solitary minutes each day.
“It’s impossible to understand this weather anymore,” the crossing guard sighs to me as I greet her with, “So warm today, huh!” She gestures to the unusual warmth and laments, “Even if someone said there’s no climate change, I wouldn’t believe them—just look at the weather.”
I smile and continue my walk, passing trees that just days ago glowed with red and gold leaves, now nearly bare, with only a few leaves clinging precariously to branches. Where thick canopies once shaded, there’s now an open view straight to the horizon.
Another year is slipping away. This cycle of leafing and baring records the years on the trees’ rings and the measure of our seasons. Nature, in its silent, endless cycle, marks time, while we measure our lives by time. But unlike nature’s ceaseless, unthinking march, life’s journey is painfully brief. I can’t help but wonder—what is the purpose of such fleeting lives as ours? Nature seems infinite; by contrast, our lives feel so minuscule.
On TV, politicians are embroiled in laughably dramatic exchanges. The U.S. is days away from electing a new president, with two sides locked in fierce, mutual accusations of stealing democracy. The theater of it all is almost unbecoming of America, the historic paragon of democracy.
On the other side of the world, Gaza is becoming a vision of hell, with countless lives numb to hope, face-to-face with death daily. And yet, the United Nations, supposedly the custodian of post-WWII order, has become a ceremonial relic, unable to curtail the inhumanity of war. It feels as if our collective moral compass has been sent backward by a century.
Meanwhile, nature is quietly staging its own rebellion against humanity’s excesses. Southeast Asia has just been ravaged by a record-breaking tropical storm; the Caribbean has rewritten hurricane records multiple times in recent weeks. There have been reports indicating the occurrence of unprecedented floods throughout Europe. In the Arctic, glaciers are melting, and sea levels are rising in ways barely perceptible to us, threatening to consume our cities in the coming decades. The shrinking glaciers are shifting tectonic stability, which may trigger more superquakes and volcanic activity in the future. But for the most part, humanity remains blissfully unaware—decades feel endless in our brief lives, stretching beyond perception.
Standing before the still pond, I watch the few remaining wild ducks drifting across the water, feeling distant from these global dramas, tragedies, and catastrophes - I can ignore them for now, yet I can’t escape my own present concerns. Should I turn left or right to return home within ten minutes to tackle work? My phone rings—it’s the school reporting my son’s mischief, and I must have a talk with him to ensure some degree of parental discipline. Both children have extracurricular activities tonight, so I need to finish my work early and arrange family dinner; the fridge is empty of vegetables and breakfast staples, so I’ll need to remind my husband to pick some up. And Halloween is tomorrow—should I ask my husband to take the kids somewhere fun, while bracing myself for the doorbell’s incessant ringing?
We’re tied up in our everyday tasks until one day, they’re no longer ours to tend to—like those sitting among the rubble, focusing solely on evading the next falling bomb, or those looking over their ruined homes, wistful for the “normal” days they once took for granted. This routine, with its endless reflection on the past, sighs for the present, and worries for the future, will end. When it does, we may feel nostalgia, regret, or sorrow, but we won’t have a way to turn back. Life, like nature, marches on in its quiet rhythm, unresponsive to our remorse, ushering us to life’s end.
If the outcome is certain to be tragic, why do we fill our lives with so much futile worry, fear, envy, fight and resentment?? What is the life that is bound to end worth?
Tagore’s words come to my mind: The sky does not bear my footprints, but I have flown across it. The sky remains, even without a single bird soaring across it, but it bears silent witness to each bird’s clumsy or graceful flight, to their brief and unrecorded glory. Birds leave no mark upon the sky, but they were there. How would we prove we ever existed if we never even tried to fly?
Ahead, someone approaches a coat draped over their arm like mine. It seems that this seemingly warm but still chilly day has called many people out of their homes. I quickened my pace and packed my question into the corner of my heart. Against the unusual warm wind of late October, I hurried back to my not-so-distant home, back to the life that was entangled in mundane daily tasks. Along the way, I carefully avoided the puddles in the middle of the path and passed by several groups of neighbours who were taking a leisurely walk together, all of whom I could not recall if I'd ever met before. They probably wouldn't be thinking about such distant questions as I am now. Whether to think or not to think is a choice that reflects different ways of existing for us.
It’s late October, yet the warmth feels like spring, showing none of the classic Canadian autumn. I step outside, walking the path by the neighborhood pond, and within fifty meters, the warmth makes me shrug off my coat, draping it over my arm.
The family doctor said my sleep troubles stem from lack of exercise, so she suggested I move my body daily. I’ve since grown accustomed to my daily walks around the pond path, and gradually, my sleep has indeed improved. I’ve come to savor these solitary minutes each day.
“It’s impossible to understand this weather anymore,” the crossing guard sighs to me as I greet her with, “So warm today, huh!” She gestures to the unusual warmth and laments, “Even if someone said there’s no climate change, I wouldn’t believe them—just look at the weather.”
I smile and continue my walk, passing trees that just days ago glowed with red and gold leaves, now nearly bare, with only a few leaves clinging precariously to branches. Where thick canopies once shaded, there’s now an open view straight to the horizon.
Another year is slipping away. This cycle of leafing and baring records the years on the trees’ rings and the measure of our seasons. Nature, in its silent, endless cycle, marks time, while we measure our lives by time. But unlike nature’s ceaseless, unthinking march, life’s journey is painfully brief. I can’t help but wonder—what is the purpose of such fleeting lives as ours? Nature seems infinite; by contrast, our lives feel so minuscule.
On TV, politicians are embroiled in laughably dramatic exchanges. The U.S. is days away from electing a new president, with two sides locked in fierce, mutual accusations of stealing democracy. The theater of it all is almost unbecoming of America, the historic paragon of democracy.
On the other side of the world, Gaza is becoming a vision of hell, with countless lives numb to hope, face-to-face with death daily. And yet, the United Nations, supposedly the custodian of post-WWII order, has become a ceremonial relic, unable to curtail the inhumanity of war. It feels as if our collective moral compass has been sent backward by a century.
Meanwhile, nature is quietly staging its own rebellion against humanity’s excesses. Southeast Asia has just been ravaged by a record-breaking tropical storm; the Caribbean has rewritten hurricane records multiple times in recent weeks. There have been reports indicating the occurrence of unprecedented floods throughout Europe. In the Arctic, glaciers are melting, and sea levels are rising in ways barely perceptible to us, threatening to consume our cities in the coming decades. The shrinking glaciers are shifting tectonic stability, which may trigger more superquakes and volcanic activity in the future. But for the most part, humanity remains blissfully unaware—decades feel endless in our brief lives, stretching beyond perception.
Standing before the still pond, I watch the few remaining wild ducks drifting across the water, feeling distant from these global dramas, tragedies, and catastrophes - I can ignore them for now, yet I can’t escape my own present concerns. Should I turn left or right to return home within ten minutes to tackle work? My phone rings—it’s the school reporting my son’s mischief, and I must have a talk with him to ensure some degree of parental discipline. Both children have extracurricular activities tonight, so I need to finish my work early and arrange family dinner; the fridge is empty of vegetables and breakfast staples, so I’ll need to remind my husband to pick some up. And Halloween is tomorrow—should I ask my husband to take the kids somewhere fun, while bracing myself for the doorbell’s incessant ringing?
We’re tied up in our everyday tasks until one day, they’re no longer ours to tend to—like those sitting among the rubble, focusing solely on evading the next falling bomb, or those looking over their ruined homes, wistful for the “normal” days they once took for granted. This routine, with its endless reflection on the past, sighs for the present, and worries for the future, will end. When it does, we may feel nostalgia, regret, or sorrow, but we won’t have a way to turn back. Life, like nature, marches on in its quiet rhythm, unresponsive to our remorse, ushering us to life’s end.
If the outcome is certain to be tragic, why do we fill our lives with so much futile worry, fear, envy, fight and resentment?? What is the life that is bound to end worth?
Tagore’s words come to my mind: The sky does not bear my footprints, but I have flown across it. The sky remains, even without a single bird soaring across it, but it bears silent witness to each bird’s clumsy or graceful flight, to their brief and unrecorded glory. Birds leave no mark upon the sky, but they were there. How would we prove we ever existed if we never even tried to fly?
Ahead, someone approaches a coat draped over their arm like mine. It seems that this seemingly warm but still chilly day has called many people out of their homes. I quickened my pace and packed my question into the corner of my heart. Against the unusual warm wind of late October, I hurried back to my not-so-distant home, back to the life that was entangled in mundane daily tasks. Along the way, I carefully avoided the puddles in the middle of the path and passed by several groups of neighbours who were taking a leisurely walk together, all of whom I could not recall if I'd ever met before. They probably wouldn't be thinking about such distant questions as I am now. Whether to think or not to think is a choice that reflects different ways of existing for us.