Inspiration in the Insignificant

It was quite a while ago when I realized how small I was. I first noticed it when I was about 14 or 15. My family went on a cruise through the Caribbean, managed to get a room on the bow of the ship, with a balcony facing outwards.

One night, after the big boat had spent a day chugging away from one port towards another, I spent about an hour standing on this balcony, watching the wake emanate from the back of the ship. I tracked the foamy ripples until they disappeared into the black. We were far enough from any civilization that the only light I could see was that from the ship itself. The waves from the wake would streak into this wonderful oblivion, the black ocean being nearly indistinguishable from the inky sky.

Have you ever been lost in a place without light? I used to dream of it as a child; I was paralyzed, floating in a universe of nothing, with no way to move and no person to hear me. Maybe other’s experiences are less traumatic. Perhaps you once switched off your closet light while the door was closed. Regardless, darkness has an incredible effect on one’s perspective. Everything is the same; everything is nothing and you become part of it. And that’s where I was, standing on a balcony on the back of a ship, staring at a completely black horizon. I was staring at a blank canvas, but one so dark and so vast that any impression I could ever manage to make upon it would melt away into oblivion, consumed just as the wake of this massive ship is by such impenetrable darkness.

Quickly, name the 6^th United States President of the Continental Congress. Don’t think about it, don’t look it up. Tell me his name. (If you are not an American, then name some equivalent and obscure figure of whatever country or organization you belong to. Some examples: the 57^th Catholic Pope, the 98^th Consul of the Roman Republic, the 3^rd King of France, whatever). It is my intention that you are unable to name this figure, unless you are one of those who memorize these sorts of things in order to impress people at boring dinner parties. In your special case, name the 5^th Chieftain of the Lombardi tribes from late Antiquity.

Back to the President. (Note: I cheated. The following information has been procured not from my incredible intellect, but from actual research.) His name is Richard Henry Lee, and he held for one year the position that the great George Washington would call “the most important seat in the United States.” He guided a fledging nation for an entire year, working under the Articles of Confederation. Earlier in his career, he fostered a eponymous resolution in the Second Continental Congress to declare American independence from Great Britain.

Imagine the acclaim of this man. He was respected by his peers, so much that they placed him into one of the most important political offices at the time. His successes are incredible and he played a vital role in founding and protecting one of the most important countries in the history of human civilization. And he did this not even two and a half centuries ago.

And you don’t even know his fucking name.

I certainly didn’t. Until I just looked him up a few hours ago for the purposes of this thought experiment, I had never heard of him.

Where does that leave us? I certainly am not going to found any world-changing democracies in my lifetime. I won’t, you know, free a land of people from the unjust fetters of oppressive monarchical rule. Sure, I’ll do some good. I’ll be nice to people, donate to charity, infect the minds of humans across the globe with my depressing philosophical outlook on life. Maybe, if I may be so bold, I will write a book or something.

But I certainly will not have anywhere near the impact upon anything that Richard Henry Lee had upon the course of human civilization. (Full Disclosure: In the time between first typing Richard Henry Lee’s name and typing it just now, I forgot it and had to look it up again.) And – no offense – I doubt many of us will. Try to dwell on this thought, if it is not to painful. One of the great men of history can be completely wiped from human consciousness in a matter of generations, leaving behind not much more than a crumbling statue in the middle of a desert.

That – what you are feeling just now – is insignificance. And you think it sucks, but I think it’s great.

I have found no greater liberation than in the realization that I do not matter. My greatest embarrassments, my most honorable successes will be enveloped not just by an ever expanding human history, but by a massive and impersonal universe, consumed by blackness and forgotten. All that matters is the moment. You can only be. Just be.

But human society tells you otherwise. It forces you into another direction. You have to get a job, plan for the future, get married have children. Get on the trolley, go to work, take a lunch break, go to work, get on the trolley, eat dinner, sleep, wake up, get on the trolley, go to work... But that doesn’t make you happy. It can’t. So there are other enticements: promises of meaning and happiness; psychic cushions onto which you can rest your tired head. So you must do it. It’s easier to just do it.

Unless you embrace your insignificance.

Nothing really matters. This is not a condemnation. This is not a pronouncement that all is hopeless. It is an opportunity to create, to carve a new path towards what maybe, even just for a few seconds, causes you to realize the preciousness, the beauty that life is. Here is true freedom: from ego, from embarrassment, from frustration. Nothing matters, so seize the day. You might not end up as another Richard Henry Lee (I had to look up his name again). But nobody remembered him anyway. 

(I understand how dangerously close this is to nihilism. But at least it is optimistic, right?) -Edit: Okay, it's optimistic nihilism, rather than optimistic sort-of nihilism.