Thankfully, I am not the master of my fate, nor am I the captain of my soul.
“But I can be good enough!”
This was the cry which had echoed out so many times before, the anthem of the timeless and oh-so-futile struggle that every human fights. The sum of all mortal hopes, dreams, and delusions gathered into one statement. Man has always fought against his helplessness. There is always a battle when the eternal fate of his soul is brought forth for scrutiny. He is convinced, in his mind, of his ability to survive. The Earth is his plaything, sickness is but an inconvenience, and the animals exist for naught but to be controlled. He is his own master. Why should he not be able to control his place in the afterlife? God is but an idea, an ideological crutch on which to lean. Only the weak need to acknowledge Him; that’s what the strong tell themselves.
“I can be good enough!” Always in the future, ever a possibility, never an I am, that’s for the shallow. There’s always one more thing. There are always improvements to be made. Perfection is always just ahead. I. Can. Be.
Like the constant attempts of the mosquito to survive, the finger plugging the dam, or the roadkill which once tried to traverse the highways without a vehicle, so is man. On its own, the finite can never become infinite. The infinite can never be completely reduced to the definable. Collect, pile, multiply, and repeat, the infinite is never within grasp. There will always be an amount, no matter how large the number. Infinite is not a human term. It can be, but it never will. The theoretical has no bearing on the divine. Possibilities will not pass for constants. Can be will never pass for I am. I have been, can be, might, was, or could—none of these will suffice.
Without a piece of the infinite, the finite is but a mere dot on a scale—easily obtainable and even more easily surpassable. It is when the infinite comes down, takes on the burdens on the finite, and provides a portal through which both can pass, that the finite is saved.
“No, you can’t,” came the response, “but I can.”
Having reviewed the vast majority of items adjacent to my person, I have decided that there is nothing to write about. Not only is there nothing to write about, there is nothing being written on this subject which is so aptly lacking in literary recognition. In order to further accentuate the point that is so clearly made in the absence of written material, I have undertaken to put forth a remedy. Henceforth, this piece of writing shall have nothing to do with anything, aside from the fact that it covers absolutely all of nothing.
In covering all of nothing it does attempt, in a way, to cover something. However, most of those people who make up the audience (assuming that they are, in fact, people) will find that this post really does achieve its goal of not doing anything. Indeed, it even accomplishes the wonderfully difficult task of meeting the exact expectations of the readers: it does nothing at all.
So, in examining the original purpose of this post, which was to do nothing, does it fulfill its purpose? The actuality of the matter is that there is a purpose, that purpose is to do nothing. This is a much different purpose than being purposeless. To be purposeless is to exist without a creator; nothing is truly purposeless. Even that which was made to be purposeless still inherits its purpose in the fact that the creator wanted a purposeless item. This bring in a much more terrible and horrific accusation; this post contradicts itself. The original intent of this post was to be about nothing, but, instead, it has become about everything. Therefore, the readers of this essay are sure to be vastly disappointed in the manner in which their expectations and notions of nothingness have been so rudely destroyed. What was the purpose of that?