hope? maybe
Why are we here?
Long ago, when the primates split from mammals, and then yielded apes, which resulted in hominids, then hominens, then the genus Homo, giving us, well, us, there were simple, clear objectives. Survive and reproduce. Feed yourself, so you do not die. Save your kin, so they may find their mate.
Wake up. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
As we evolved, flying from phylum Chordata down through the taxonomic order into species Sapiens, designating more and more blood-flow to our increasingly large cerebra, we created complex, shall we say, things of all ilk:
Tools, for our brains could think of them, and while our bodies were not designed for brute force, the efficiency of a tool could be leveraged by even a tool, so long as they had stamina.
Language, for why must we languish with generous amounts of grunting when untold lexica lie in wait for us to tap into. A Babelian wish, to be sure, but a boon we try to harness to this day.
Community, for the good we can do alone can be compounded by those around us.
(Alliteration, as it alleviates worries and allays arduous afflictions…)
————
What is our purpose now?
Emily Dickinson said that “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all”.
My hope feels small.
I feel as though its flying feathers are frayed, and its down are soaked, inexplicably, and a wind chill surges ahead, piercing through my body and reducing my hope to a shivering mess.
My hope feels small.
I once hoped to be a police officer, then an astronaut, then a statistician, then a soccer player, then an astrophysicist. Soon, I will have a degree in computer science, having worked on the next generation of quantum computers in theory and practice. Have I done anything? Will I help people? Will I lead a happy life? What is my purpose?
I once hoped that in my lifetime, I’d see less. Less of fire, less of screaming children, less of burning multicolored flags, less of the hurt and pain and ostracization. Less. Thank you, Internet, your charm betrays you.
Perhaps there is time for change. I prepare a warm fire for my hope, and move onward.
I hoped, and still hope, to continue learning. Perhaps that is my purpose, to enjoy all that this fantastic world has to offer in the way of things to know, to see, to experience, to live, to embody. Where does the word posthumous come from? Why does the Coriolis effect work? What is the process of carbon dating? Curiosity is my purpose. Why can’t others share that? Ted Lasso says to “Be curious, not judgemental” – I enjoy that.
Why can’t others be curious about their peers’ lives? “You and I, we’re so different! Look at our skin, our faith, the shape of our noses, our hair!” you exclaim, forgetting the ninety-nine point nine percent of DNA that we share, strings of A, T, G, C that determine who we are, maybe even why. “We are, all of us, Homo sapiens. Should our purpose not be to care for each other, regardless of our differences?” I counter, hoping, nay, pleading to your common sense that remains so uncommon. “Why do we divide ourselves?” I ask, “why?”
Even as I hope to continue learning myself, so too do I hope that others never stop. Intellectualism winces, limp visible, crutches at the ready. Many Billions are ready to put it to rest, fear emanating from their gluttony, greed, greenbacks, surely they are the ones with green backs, those snakes who prey on us all with the hopes of getting, what, richer? Why? What is their purpose?
————
And now, a brief word from our sponsor, ChatGPT. Have you ever had an idea for a cool piece of art, or a story, or a song rhythm? Have you ever had an idea about some cool, novel research, a new application of existing technology, of something interesting? Have you ever written a script, or lyrics, or thoughts, or reasons, or knowledge, pen to paper, or digits to keyboard?
Have you ever had to fail to learn?
What if you didn’t have to?
Introducing ChatGPT, a conversational AI that helps you get stuff done! Take the burden of thought off your shoulders and lean on us instead; we can help you get back to the important things, like success, succeeding, winning oh so very much, and doing a Good Job, as deemed by your teachers, supervisors, coworkers, friends, loved ones, you name it! Remember, don’t exert that brain too hard, our data centers can do that for you, at multiples of the cost!
Now for only two hundred dollars a month for the best features
pay up
————
…that was jarring, where was I?
Where were you and I? Us?
Oh yes, hope. Maybe it’s warmer now, cuddled up against yours,
I hope, reveling in the small heat of the fire we
tended and will tend to together, I hope.
“Maybe our purpose is to hope”, I offer, sitting around our fire, head in hands, watching the embers churn, the flickering ebb and flow.
“No”, you say, “that would be silly, I think”. Your posture is straighter, brows furrowed in thought.
“Why?”
“Because hope accomplishes nothing.”
Doesn’t it? Doesn’t hope provide the basis, the foundation, the motivation by which we trudge through our meaningless lives, slaving away for a chance that things may become better for us and us alone? Doesn’t hope fuel our selfish desires, some which may flow into small offshoots of altruism, of Howard Roarkian “Integrity”, egoism in disguise (however ethical that may be, is up to you to decide, I guess). Maybe it's the Cynicism talking, he’s got a pretty big head and some nice dwellings in my mind, I’ve half a mind to evict him. Hopefully it’s not the wrong half.
————
Maybe our ancestors were onto something, with their purpose. Somehow, some way, art was given patronage, science was rewarded, the smartest minds gathered, and the world turned, but then we understood why, and how, and we were better for it.
We stay shortsighted, now, with deadlines looming, bosses glooming, a grade, an evaluation, less money, more comparison, the thief of joy they say, all of these problems, not enough value being given, no dividends, no payout no money no happiness no payout no money no happiness no peace of mind no time no joy no nothing. None Of It, Never.
Purpose probably prefers to be personal, not permeating nor pervasive in its posture. Pshh, the gall. I’m one and twenty, hopefully with at least three or four times that to go; I think I’ll find my purpose along the way, it’s sure to be an eventful journey, my life. I sure hope so.