First of all, like what? For many people, most perhaps, it would be why is this world so harsh and unjust, why is there so much pain and misery and unending drudgery? For others (the rich ones most likely but this ain’t politics so we’ll let that pass) it would be why is the world such a wonderland of beauty, such a conucopia of delight, such a miracle of blessings and ever-renewing bounty for the soul?
For me, I belong to the second group, kinda. I have a hard time finding fault with the world as it is, or at least the ground rules for that world. Humanity sticks a spoke in things sometimes, but that’s as it should be too. The old reap as you sow effect, and we are often crappy sowers. Majorly crappy.
That too is as it should be to my mind, since you can’t just pull wisdom out of a hat around here, you have to earn it, and the human race is pretty darn young, as species go. We’re trying a whole new thing here on Earth. None of the other mammals ever had the guts to grow a brain. Not a very pleasant experience at times. Quite an unruly organ, the human brain. Hard to ride.
Give us a few tens of millenia and we may bust that bronco. At present our minds ride us.
Time will heal, I hope.
There is one thing in this world I have a problem with, however. Our world is to me a miracle, every bit of it, a wonderland of geometry and biology, with each bit fitting exactly right. Except one: that little unfit bit I refer to as me. To live well in this world of gravity and entropy and time and chance it takes a certain kind of human – one with grace and courage and will.
Many writers get their inspiration from injustice and the problems of the world. I don’t see that in the same way. Were I to rail against the problems of the world all I would do is talk about how pusillanimous I am, constitutionally incapable of beating down reality with my forehead. Suppose I could start a screed against procrastination. Join the Anti-Procrastination League and stamp out injustice!
The world is like this because you are like that.