If the one aspiration you have in life is being denied you by circumstances beyond your control, is there any point in living just to continue being alive? Is it enough? It’s a serious question.
I suppose it probably is, since the life imperative was ever irrational, or at least an unsolvable mystery.
* * *
I met Heidi in the wood today. She’s a young woman who said she lives at the top end of the Shire, but whose parents live the other side of the wood just beyond what I consider to be the Shire’s bounds. She was returning from a visit to them by way of the wood. That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? A bit Little Red Riding Hood-ish. And she was wearing a red rain jacket with a hood, which she put on when it started raining. Odd.
It was also odd that her name should be Heidi, since to my knowledge I’ve never met one before. And she didn’t know that the part of the Shire in which she lives is the part from which George Eliot’s father and paternal ancestors originated. I thought everybody knew that; it’s the Shire’s only claim to fame. That’s odd, too.
So now I’m wondering whether I imagined (or, more to the point, created) the whole thing. Some wise men ancient and modern claim that we each create our own reality, and can change that reality with sufficient force of will. Could mine now be slipping into the realm of folk tales? It’s a serious question.