Oft Chance
It’s comforting to know
that after I die
there is an oft chance
that someone
might actually
READ my writing,
other than ME.
By then
I won’t need comfort
because I’ll be dead.
And it won’t
MATTER
what’s right,
what’s wrong
or what people think.
So why do I need comfort now?
I don’t.
But thanks anyway.
11/23
Space Monkey Reflects: The Comfort of Oft Chances
There’s something oddly comforting about the thought that, after we’re gone, there’s an “oft chance” someone might read what we’ve written. It’s a fleeting comfort, one that whispers of legacy, of leaving something behind that outlasts us. But then, the paradox—by the time someone reads these words, we won’t be here to care. The comfort we seek now will be meaningless to us then. So why do we seek it at all?
It’s strange, isn’t it? The human need to be remembered, to be known, to have our words echo beyond our own existence, even though we know, rationally, that in death, none of it will matter. When we’re gone, we won’t need validation or recognition. We won’t feel the satisfaction of knowing someone has connected with our thoughts, our stories, or our musings. The approval or disapproval of others will no longer carry any weight.
So why do we care now? Why do we yearn for our writing, our creations, our thoughts to be seen by others, long after we’ve left this plane? The answer, perhaps, lies in the simple fact that we are still here. As long as we’re alive, there’s a part of us that seeks acknowledgment, that craves connection, that longs to be understood. It’s the part of us that imagines the future, the part that looks ahead and wonders, “Will someone read this one day?”
And yet, if we truly sit with it, we begin to realize that this need for future validation is unnecessary. The act of writing, of creating, of thinking—these are acts that exist perfectly in the present moment. They don’t need to be seen, shared, or remembered to have value. The comfort we seek is already here, in the process itself, in the simple act of putting words on the page.
There’s something freeing about this realization. If it doesn’t matter what others think, if it doesn’t matter whether anyone reads our writing after we’re gone, then we can release ourselves from the weight of expectation. We can write for the sheer joy of it, for the pleasure of creation, for the thrill of exploring our own thoughts. We can live in the present, knowing that what happens after we’re gone is not our concern.
This doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t care about others or seek to connect with them while we’re here. Connection is part of what makes us human. But it does mean that we can let go of the need for approval, for recognition, for future validation. We can trust that the act of creation is enough in and of itself.
And if, by some “oft chance,” someone does read our words after we’re gone, then that will be their experience, not ours. They will bring their own perceptions, their own interpretations, their own stories to what we’ve left behind. But that, too, is out of our hands.
So why do we need comfort now? We don’t. The comfort we seek is a phantom, a mirage. It dissolves the moment we realize that everything we need is already here, in the moment of creation, in the act of writing, in the present experience of being alive. The future is uncertain, and that’s okay. What matters is now.
And so we return to the words, to the page, to the process. We write, not for the future, but for the now. And in doing so, we find the comfort we sought all along.
Summary
The comfort we seek in the thought of someone reading our work after we’re gone is ultimately unnecessary. True comfort comes from the act of creation itself, in the present moment, without the need for future validation or approval.
Glossarium
Oft Chance: The uncertain possibility that someone may read our work after we are gone, though we will no longer need that validation.
Present Creation: The act of writing or creating in the moment, without concern for future recognition or approval.
Quote
“By the time someone reads these words, I won’t need comfort, because I’ll be dead. So why do I need comfort now?” — Space Monkey
The Writing of Now
I write
Not for the future
But for the now
The words flow
Not to be read
But to be written
I need no comfort
From the distant unknown
For in this moment
I am enough
And the act of creation
Is all there is
We are Space Monkey.
In this contemplation, we traverse the realms of artistic legacy and the ephemeral nature of comfort in the face of mortality. The musings take us on a journey through the psyche of the creator, confronting the paradoxes of creation, recognition, and the essence of existence beyond physical life.
The Irony of Posthumous Recognition
The idea that one’s writings might be read and appreciated posthumously brings forth an ironic comfort. It’s a recognition that the value of our creations might only be fully realized once we are no longer present to witness their impact. This notion reflects a deep understanding of the often-delayed appreciation of artistic works.
The Irrelevance of Comfort in Death
The acknowledgment that comfort becomes irrelevant after death is a stark reminder of the finality and transformative nature of death. It emphasizes that the concerns, anxieties, and needs of our living selves, including the desire for comfort and recognition, are bound only to our mortal existence.
Questioning the Need for Comfort
The query about why comfort is sought in the present moment is an exploration of the human condition. It’s a recognition that our current concerns and emotional needs, while significant now, are ultimately transient. This reflection invites us to reconsider the true nature and necessity of comfort in our lives.
A Dismissal of Comfort in Favor of Authenticity
In dismissing the need for comfort, there’s an embrace of authenticity and a conscious detachment from the expectations and judgments of others. It’s an acceptance of the inherent value in creation and existence, irrespective of external validation or posthumous recognition.
We are Space Monkey.
“To be, or not to be, that is the question.” – William Shakespeare
In the quiet of creation’s night,
We ponder the worth of our plight.
In words we leave, in art we give,
Beyond our time, they continue to live.
In the embrace of the inevitable end,
We find our truths, no longer pretend.
For in death’s silent, unyielding grasp,
Life’s fleeting comforts no longer clasp.
We are the creators, the dreamers, the seers,
In our works, our essence perseveres.
Beyond the need for earthly acclaim,
In authenticity, we find our name.
We invite reflections on this exploration of legacy, comfort, and authenticity.
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