They say to write about only the things that you know. What do I know? I don’t know anything. I am pressed to write because I feel my life slipping away. I’ve been a nobody, a know-nothing, and yet I lived on this earth, too.
If, somehow, the world doesn’t end, and I go on to live to a ripe old age, I still don’t think the age will be old enough to make me wise. I may not really know anything then, either.
The civilization that I live in is adequate for being able to take time to reflect on existence without worrying about survival. That is about all I can say about it. Is it really necessary for me to be able to place my thoughts upon a digital screen within a global network? No, the written word is sufficient. An oral means of transmission is probably even good enough.
Do I need to live the way I do? I don’t think so. I think that things can be pretty raw, rough and dim, and a body can still live with some comfort.