Definitely one for the Wishlist 🙂
“Instead of a book, what if we’re actually writing (or not writing) in the margins of our lives? What if our lives are books? What is the sign of our presence? Are we pressing into the margins our interpretations and questions? Are we circling offending verbs and drawing furious arrows to the margin where we scrawl “irony”, “frustration”, “voiceless”, “unfair!”? Or do we simply turn the pages, passively receiving what’s given, furiously disagreeing but remaining silent about it?”
In the last few weeks, I have unintentionally stumbled upon blogs, and am amazed by the number of people wondering about the purpose and meaning of their lives. Some, by the authors’ descriptions, seem heavy with monotony. Others are weighed down by trial and hardship. A few attempt to find purpose through hobbies, intense leisure (oxymoron!), breathtaking scenery, or in people around them. Not that there’s anything wrong with these, but tracing the entries, I invariably see the authors hit disappointment. And strikingly, their question still is “What is the point of my life?” Beneath the sleek/cute/contemporary/ornate designs of their colourful, statement-making online journals is a great emptiness through which that haunting question of significance echoes.