I wrote a book called Rose-Tinted Whatever. It’s a pretty decent short story collection charting the wonders and misdeeds of a universal hero-caste, the gamut of which includes zombie scientists, forlorn memories, and a Pink Panther / Human owl combo.
After reading this article’s opening paragraph, I believe it’s self-evident that Rose-Tinted Whatever is liberally creative. It is, and its content is pretty far removed from the humdrum of my daily life.
Why so zany? It couldn’t have been any other way, really. Like most of the working world, I’m also caught up in the work-bills-death triptych. I don’t like it, but that’s the price you pay for the decisions you make.
What has this got to do with meaningless exertion? Meaningless exertion is what causes premature death. And by death, I don’t necessarily mean when your heart or brain stops working: it means to stop caring whether you live or die, the acid test of which is how you spend your days on Earth.
Oh hell, I’ve done a lot of meaningless crap: I’ve nodded when I didn’t agree, have kowtowed to keep people happy, and have remained silent on universes I’ve could’ve debated over. I guess I acted this way because I didn’t want to compromise my creative space – my writing – for that realm must remain pure.
My point here is that life loves meaninglessness: rotund meetings, energy-sucking dramas, ticking off boxes, both professionally and socially. None of these will sway us from the inevitable, and due to this, it’s essential you find your own space – your niche – within which to live.
If you don’t, you’re better off dead. If you do and you get fired, divorced, or deported… Rose-Tinted Whatever, man. Life, after all, is a canvas to commit the otherworldy, not to make some anonymous aristocrat even richer.