I used to have odd fancies when I was younger about how the world worked. Because I decided early on, probably too early if truth be told, that value systems are arbitrary and that you make your own point in life, I would concoct various ways of living that I’d think the ultimate and fall whole-heartedly into for a couple of motnths.

One of these was a questioning one, y’know, a dull everyday event would happen, in which I’d change a single person’s day by an iota, and I’d find myself thinknig “Was that it? Was that what I’m here for?” Not in a religious way, because that’s just a dull overworked idea, but more in a “being an element in another’s dream” way.

Similarly, after reading a little too much of the end of A Tale of Two Cities and The Trial of Charles I I found myself falling again into the martyring (but purposeful) track of Sidney Carlton, thinking to myself which of my friends, family and acquaintances I’d be willing to die for. Odd chain of thought, as it leads to distinctly disturbing conclusions about the value of lives with regard to age, intelligence, and unquantifiable things like compassion; but then again we all develop our own private value systems, just that we refuse to admit them to ourselves. Or is that the fallacy of the universalised self again, am I thinking because I think this everybody thinks this, therefore this is right. Ah, it’s too late, port has made me weary, and philosophy befuddles my aging brain. I’ll bid you a jew, and raise you a shia.

Argue with me