Elephant Journal Posts

When I first began writing this piece, I was torn between the many different directions it could take. Do I write about the vast endlessness of grief? Do I discuss the bittersweet importance of memories, however transient they may be? Or do I reflect on the inevitability of moving forward, even though our every instinct wants to keep us in the past—in the place where memories can never fade?

F. Scott Fitzgerald famously wrote in The Great Gatsby, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” From the moment I first read these words, they haunted me: Are we destined to forever relive the past, always fighting to move forward in a world that keeps pulling us back?

There are days when I wake up with zest and enthusiasm, with a desire to take on the world; and on those days, the realization that I’m forever being drawn backward is tragic. And then there are days—like today—when the thought of memories fading into nothingness devastates me. I’m relieved that the past, at least, has a grip on me—even as I’m losing my grip on it. Despite this relief, these days are spent in melancholy, idleness, and a haze of sadness that clouds my judgement and makes thinking (and working) impossible. Yes, I have my memories—but what are they worth if they’re denying me my life?

It’s impossible to live simultaneously in the past and the present. The romantic in me wants to hold on, wants to be “borne back ceaselessly,” wants to preserve my memories and keep them fresh so that the fog of time may never blur them. But the only way to preserve them is to relive them, and to do that, I have to pull a cloak around myself so I can shut out the world and its endless movement. But is that what I’m here for—to hold onto memories of someone who will never come back?

Like Fitzgerald, Emily Brontë uses a water metaphor to describe the inevitability of time; in contrast, she believes we are inevitably pushed forward, into the future, toward life:

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,

While the world’s tide is bearing me along;

Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

Her love is gone, is buried, is “cold in the earth,” and by holding on too tightly, she is burying herself with him. She has to let go, not only because life compels her to, but because she wants to. It is her duty to continue living, even if that means forgetting.

My grandmother mourned my grandfather’s death for 37 years. Right until the moment she herself passed away, she cried whenever his name was mentioned. As a child, I greatly admired this: her ongoing devotion to him in a world that tried to force her to let go. Looking back, however, I am compelled to reevaluate my opinion. Her fear of amentalio kept her anchored in the past. She could never move into the present, or embrace the future; and as a result, I’m sad to say, her life never amounted to much. She shut out friends, family, and the possibility of new loves, and chose instead to spend her days wrapped up in her cloak of grief and memories. She never allowed herself to produce or enjoy anything, and now, 12 years after her death, I have to honestly admit that she made no impression on the world. She was relieved to die, and the world was indifferent to her absence.

Why are we here? I don’t believe we were put on Earth to accumulate fame, money, and popularity by ruthlessly burying the past and forcing our way into the future. At the same time, I don’t think we are here to avoid life, either. We exist so that we can live meaningfully—and living meaningfully can only happen in the present.

As much as I don’t want to go to my deathbed having forgotten the smell of my mother’s hair, the exact shade of brown of her eyes, or the wrinkles around her mouth whenever she smiled, I don’t want to die having wasted my life, either. And so, I choose to embrace my amentalio—even though it breaks my heart—because I have a duty to myself and to the world to keep on living.

I want to live 'hard', whatever that may mean, and I want to completely use up my potential so that I can safely say I tried my very best. To quote poet and activist Andrea Gibson:

Just to be clear, I don’t want to get out without a broken heart. I intend to leave this life so shattered, there better be a thousand separate heavens for all of my flying parts.

“Kindness” is related to many other qualities, foremost being generosity, friendliness, considerateness, and supportiveness. Here is one definition of kindness: “the sincere and voluntary use of one’s time, talent, and resources to better others,’ one’s own life, and the world through genuine acts of love, compassion, generosity, and service.” A more poetic reading of kindness defines it as “love in action.”

To my mind, this is a truly beautiful sentiment, and explains perfectly why it is the key to making relationships work. Objectively, one of the kindest literary characters is Beth March from Louisa May Alcott’s novel, Little Women. Although shy and quiet, and therefore often unseen, Beth is acutely aware of the needs of others, and she does everything she can to put those around her first. She is sensitive, sweet, and loving, and she is one of the most lovable characters in classic literature. Of Beth, it was once said:

There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.

It is self-evident that the world needs more people like Beth, and that without them, we will fall into “silence and shadow.” For the individual, kindness is necessary for improved mental health, social connectedness, a more defined sense of purpose, general well-being, and, as mentioned before, closer relationships. To live a good life, we must practice kindness, because, as philosopher Marcus Aurelius claims, “Man is born for deeds of kindness.” Moreover, as the reverend and writer Ian Maclaren rightly believes, the world needs us to be kind: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” Life isn’t easy—for anyone—and it is in everyone’s (including our own) best interest that we keep this in mind when dealing with others.

That being said, kindness—and along with it, qualities such as generosity, considerateness, friendliness, and supportiveness—is often ignored, because it does not generate an image of someone who is strong and assertive, and who gets things done. In a world where increasing emphasis is being placed on defining and maintaining boundaries, kindness has taken a back seat. Additionally, kindness can be seen as a weakness because it requires vulnerability, which opens us up to the possibility of being hurt. In this context, I suspect the main reason I never thought of cultivating kindness is because I was concerned it would constitute someone who is weak, and who lets other people walk all over her.

At the same time, the reason the world sometimes appears to be in such a terrible state is due to the absence of kindness. It has been my experience that the care and compassion people have for each other is decreasing by the day, and the consequence of this is that the world is, in some respects, turning into a pretty ugly place. A lot of attention is being placed on self-care, setting boundaries, and cutting out people or friends we’ve outgrown; and while all of that is important, it’s equally necessary to approach this focus on individual mental health and well-being with other people in mind. Moreover—and more importantly—it’s possible to be kind without being weak, impressionable, or unassertive.

Evidence of this can be found in another literary character, Atticus Finch from Harper Lee’s novel, To Kill a Mockingbird. Atticus is a loving father and a fair and moral citizen who is beloved by most for his kindness and compassion. He famously says:

You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.

Unlike Beth, however, Atticus is not “shy and quiet,” nor does he “sit in corners” and wait for others to need him. As a respected lawyer, he is a man who knows how to fight for what he believes in, and he does so fervently throughout his career. If anything, he serves as proof that it is possible to be strong and kind at the same time.

In light of these realisations, it is my resolution for the new year to practice more kindness. However, how do we go about this? According to the Stoic philosopher Aristotle, virtues such as kindness cannot be attained without practice. In fact, instead of acquiring kindness as we would a dress or a new pair of shoes, we have to cultivate it as one would a skill such as drawing, cooking, or woodworking. It may be easier for some than for others, but we all have to practice it repeatedly. In other words, we can’t become kinder without being kind. As the Greek playwright Sophocles claims, “Kindness gives birth to kindness.”

For me, practising kindness means two things. Firstly, it requires me to shift the focus from myself and my needs to the needs of others; secondly—and relatedly—it means I have to look out for opportunities to practice kindness. To quote philosopher Eric Hoffer, “Kindness can become its own motive. We are made kind by being kind.”

The choice to be kind will not always be obvious, and sometimes, we may have to go out of our way to find opportunities to practice it. But like someone hoping to improve their cooking skills, it’s not going to happen unless we’re willing to put on an apron, pick up a spatula, and deal with the occasional oil stain. Moreover, we have to be prepared to fail every now and then, and to accept that we won’t necessarily be good at being kind right out of the gate. This can make practising kindness seem like a tall order, but sometimes, it’s as simple as smiling at a stranger; and if it’s that easy, why not see this new year as 365 opportunities to be kind?

All these activities are organized by World Controllers, whose ultimate aim is to preserve social stability by giving people everything they need to be happy. Thought-provoking books have been banned, and people’s every spare moment is taken up by games, movies, shopping, and short-lived romantic trysts. There can be no social stability without individual stability, and no individual stability in a world where thinking—and along with it, distraction-less time spent in isolation—is allowed.

Ray Bradbury poses a similar scenario in Fahrenheit 451, a novel that describes a world in which the government has banned all books and replaced them with an endless parade of television shows. The government’s reasoning, much like Huxley’s World Controllers, is that mindless distraction keeps people happy, whereas reading—and therefore thinking—creates unhappiness and instability. In both these examples, people are kept busy so that they don’t have time to think, all with the ostensible aim to make the world a better place.

Is an unthinking world a better world? It is true that thinking can bring unhappiness. Ask anyone who has ever dedicated a lot of thought to something, and they will tell you that turning an idea over and over in our heads can be a pretty painful experience. Note that I’m not referring to “overthinking,” which is the act of anxiously replaying something that is past, or being indecisive about some future event; rather I’m talking about the process of grappling with an idea—of exploring every nook and cranny of it, of considering every possible iteration, and of gathering as much information as we possibly can—until we have the most perfect version of it we can possibly muster.

Unfortunately, while doing this kind of thinking is necessary for any worthwhile outcome, it does come at a price. Thus, it is not implausible that thinking makes for a potentially unhappy world; but does that mean a world without thinking, although happier, is better?

Thinking is a solitary act. The art of forming and developing new ideas—of picking them out of the dust and polishing them until they make sense—can only happen in isolation. Part of this process, of course, is sound-boarding and researching, which requires the input of peers and some cognitive effort dedicated to absorbing the thoughts of others; but before there can be sound-boarding and research, there must be isolated thinking.

In a world with constant activity, the isolation needed for thinking becomes impossible, and new ideas disappear. This world, although stable and happy (by Huxley’s and Bradbury’s standards), is empty and impoverished. This is a world without the Mona Lisa, the Taj Mahal, Stradivarius violins, and the lightbulb. It is a world in which none of the great religious texts were ever written, and none of the world’s most admired philosophical and scientific ideas ever came to the fore. It is a world without technological advancement or cultural depth—in other words, it is a world without a soul.

“Did you ever feel as though you had something inside you that was only waiting for you to give it a chance to come out? Some sort of extra power that you’re not using?” says Huxley’s character, Helmholtz Watson. Helmholtz has a point—we all have some “extra power” that can bring great meaning to both our own lives and the world; but what Helmholtz doesn’t realize is that for that extra power to come out, he needs to spend time thinking about it. Moreover, he needs to bring what is inside him out, not just for his own well-being, but also for the benefit of the world. “I claim the right to be unhappy,” says Huxley’s Tomakin, because it is only through happiness that truth, beauty, and meaning can be brought into our lives, and into the world.

Philosopher Immanuel Kant was renowned for taking a daily walk; in fact, so consistent was he in this regard that neighbors jokingly said they could “set their watches by his habit.” The reason for these walks? To think. Kant understood the importance of doing nothing, so that he could do more. By doing nothing, I don’t mean doing nothing productive; instead, I mean not doing things that keep us away from our thoughts, such as reading, scrolling, socializing, or watching series or movies. In other words, doing nothing except thinking. Other great artists, writers, and inventors had similar habits, all of which points to the fact that it is only by freeing ourselves from distractions—however happy they may make us—that truly great things can emerge.

I have often been told that I could never be a writer because I’m far too busy—with people, with books, and with the world at large. Hearing this was uncomfortable, but it was also true. I had an endless array of ideas, but none of them ever amounted to anything, and I wasn’t able to produce much. It was only once I realized that I needed to isolate myself and face the painful process of thinking that my ideas started taking shape: what was once stuck in my head finally blossomed into something I could share with the world—and in a strange way, while the process of thinking was painful, finally being able to create something brought me happiness. That being said, I also learned that everyone’s thinking process looks different and we all need to figure out what works best for us as individuals.

Being alone with your thoughts can be a terrifying thing, but this doesn’t mean you should shy away from them. In fact, it is that very terror that can inspire the most meaningful ideas. Thinking comes at a price: “What you need,” says Tomakin to the Controller of the brave new world, “is something with tears for a change. Nothing costs enough here.”

And he is right: it is only through mastering the art of doing nothing—and paying the price for it—that we can create a world that is worth something.

No matter how selective we are with the people we surround ourselves with, or how trustworthy we believe these people to be, at some point we’ll find ourselves faced with a choice: do we give someone the benefit of the doubt, or do we expect the worst from them so that we can avoid disappointment and pain?

In the professional world, there are many mechanisms to make sure people do what they promised to do. But would we trust doctors and lawyers to keep our information confidential if they weren’t bound by law to do so? Would we trust advertisers if false advertising wasn’t regulated? Would we trust our employers to pay us regular salaries if they weren’t contractually obligated to us? Would we trust colleagues and managers, providers of goods and services, business partners, and even family, friends, and spouses to keep their word in a world without the fear of punishment or legal consequences?

In our personal lives, we are faced with this decision all the time. When we fall in love, we have the choice of trusting the other person not to break our heart, or cutting short a potentially fulfilling relationship. When we tell a friend a secret, we can either believe that they will keep it, or we can expect them to betray our trust. When we lend money to a family member, we have to decide whether that person is reliable enough to pay us back.

In each of these cases, we have to ask: do people deserve the benefit of the doubt—especially those who are not bound by laws, regulations, ethics codes, and contracts—when they promise not to disappoint us? Or is it naïve to think people are interested in anything other than helping themselves and furthering their own agendas?

According to philosopher Thomas Hobbes, had it not been for the rules of society, we would find ourselves in a “dog-eat-dog” world. This means that we, as human beings, are naturally inclined to create societies that are in a constant state of war—the “State of Nature,” as Hobbes calls it—and that our instinct is to promote our own self-interest regardless of the cost to other human beings. In fact, the only reason we behave as we do is because we will be cast out of society if we don’t. It is the fear of punishment—and not our desire to be good—that keeps us on the right track. If this is true, it is entirely reasonable to be suspicious of people we know nothing about (or even ones we do), because it means they are likely to harm us if it furthers their own agendas.

William Golding tries to answer this question in his somewhat horrifying novel, Lord of the Flies. He tells the story of a group of boys who are stranded on an island after a plane crash. Left only to themselves, the boys have to find a way to organise their “society” without the guidance of adults or societal norms. Golding uses this story as a thought experiment to study the way human beings would behave if we didn’t have the imposition of law, rules, norms, and etiquette to guide and mould our behaviour. Essentially, he tries to answer the question: are we, at heart, the self-interested people Hobbes believes us to be, or can we be trusted to continue doing the right thing, even if there is nothing preventing us from behaving however we want?

Sadly, Golding comes to the conclusion (spoiler alert!) that Hobbes is right. The boys’ society unravels rapidly as their behavior becomes increasingly cruel. Using this allegory, Golding is essentially affirming Hobbes’ State of Nature by saying that human beings are, in essence, “dog-eat-dog” people, and the only thing preventing us from living out our true natures is the fear of punishment.

In contrast to Hobbes, philosophers Adam Smith and Jean Jacques Rousseau hold the opinion that human beings are inherently good, and that we desire to do right by others because that is how we are “wired.” We can’t help it: doing the right thing—or at least wanting to do the right thing—is part of our nature as human beings. This is a much kinder and more charitable view of human nature, and if our movies and novels are anything to go by, it is the view many people (if not all) prefer.

I’m not sure who was right—Hobbes or Smith and Rousseau—and part of the reason why philosophers have been arguing with each other for several centuries is because no one else seems to know, either. It seems it is up to us, as individuals, to make this choice.

In the famous Star Trek series, Gene Roddenberry proposes the following view of humanity: human nature is savage and cruel, but at the same time, he suggests we are able to overcome our nature because we are rational beings capable of change and growth. In the Star Trek universe, people have overcome the State of Nature through rationality; and there are many other alien species who began as savage as ourselves, but who, on account of being older, are further along than us on the spectrum of societal development.

This view is echoed by ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle, who believes that morality is developed through practice. While people are not inherently good from the beginning, they become so the more they learn and the harder they try. Given enough time, it is no longer the fear of banishment that keeps society together, but the goodness that has gradually developed in people. For us, this means that, while we may not be the best we can be, we will be if we continue trying.

In Lock and Key, Dessen says, “There’s no way to be a hundred percent sure about anyone or anything”—and she’s right. But instead of expecting the worst, I believe we should give people the benefit of the doubt.

Knowing people can disappoint you, but choosing to believe they won’t is not naïve—it is simultaneously hoping for the best and holding others (and ourselves) to a certain standard, even if they might not live up to it. Expecting the best from people might not ensure they will live up to expectations, but it does mean we are able to believe in the goodness of humanity, regardless of whether that goodness is inherent or constantly evolving.

That counts for something, even in the face of disappointment; in fact, believing people can be good might even be more important than expecting the worst to avoid disappointment.

There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself?

Kundera’s understanding of the German adage, einmal ist keinmal, has psychological significance. We are often held back by the fear that our choices might be the wrong ones: should I give this relationship a chance? Should I move on to a new job? Should I take a risk on a new project, or play it safe instead? For someone as indecisive as myself, the fear of choosing the wrong thing is particularly debilitating. It not only becomes an excuse to avoid making choices but can also be so paralysing that it makes decision-making of any kind impossible.

The hitch, however, is that by refraining from making choices, we are inadvertently choosing. Hunter S. Thompson said it best in a letter to his friend, Hume Logan: “A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.” Choosing not to choose is also a choice because life is in constant flux; it runs along with the unstoppable force of a river in flood, and we are all dragged along, whether we want to be or not. Passivity is therefore impossible, and remaining in one place is simply not an option. There is no pause button here: if you don’t make a decision, someone else will make it for you.

Life is filled with choices, both big and small. From the moment we wake up, we have to make decisions: what to eat, what to wear, what to say, where to go, and when to show up. As someone who struggles with choices, I have worked out strategies to avoid having to make too many decisions on a given day. I eat the same food every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; I plan my outfits a week or two in advance; and I have an exercise schedule that stays the same, come rain or shine.

These strategies help me avoid “decision fatigue,” which describes the increasing exhaustion that comes with every decision we make. Someone once explained it to me in terms of mobile data: we wake up every morning with a certain amount of data, and with every choice we make, we use some of that data. Decision fatigue occurs when we’ve run out of data, in which case our brains no longer function optimally.

What concerns me most, however, are not the small, yet necessary, day-to-day decisions that we face all the time but the big, life-changing ones that can make or break you. Since we can never know the outcome of any choice ahead of time, how can we possibly know which decision is the right one to make?

I am in a phase of my life where I need to make big decisions. These involve where to live, what to do, who to keep around, and who to let go. I am at a crossroads in nearly every aspect of my life—both personal and professional—and the prospect of making these big decisions is terrifying. I spend most of my time trying to avoid thinking about them; but in truth, choosing to ignore them—to not make a choice—is me making a choice. The only difference is that by actively taking part in these decisions, I have some (however little) control over the outcome; in contrast, if I remain passive, life will make these choices for me, and I risk being dragged along without having any say in the matter.

There is some comfort in Kundera’s suggestion that life is a rehearsal of itself because even though he suggests that a life lived only once has no meaning, not having any basis for comparison can somewhat quell the fear of making the “wrong” choice. We can never know what the alternative outcome would’ve been; ergo, whatever choice we made was the right one. The most we can do is make the best decisions possible with the information available to us at a given time, and if things don’t turn out the way we hoped they would, we can take comfort in the knowledge that the alternative route might not have been that great, either. We can use Nietzsche’s thought experiment of eternal recurrence to guide us; however, at the end of the day, what matters most is not the choice we make, but the very act of making a choice.

To be fair to myself, I think I deserved to indulge in some downtime. When bad things happen (and they inevitably do), we’re justified in taking a moment to wallow in the horror that is life sometimes. However, the tragedy of life, I’ve come to realise, is that it will hurt us, because suffering is inevitable. Thankfully, at the same time, suffering is our biggest source of meaning in this life—and this means we have no choice but to get up and try again.

Author David E. Bell defines “disappointment” as “a psychological reaction to an outcome that does not match up to expectations.” Disappointment, in other words, comes from things not matching up to how we wanted them to or believed they would. One of the most popular philosophies people turn to when faced with disappointment is Stoicism. According to the Stoics of ancient Greece, it is believed that our reaction to disappointment is more important than the disappointment itself. To quote philosopher Marcus Aurelius:

If you are pained by external things, it is not they that disturb you, but your own judgement of them. And it is in your power to wipe out that judgement now.

Essentially, Aurelius is referring to one of the foundations of Stoic philosophy, which determines that we should focus on that which we can control and let go of that which we cannot. Moreover, the Stoics believed that the purpose of life—and our greatest source of meaning—is to make life better for other people. And let’s face it: we can’t help anyone if we let disappointment keep us down. We have all been granted specific and unique talents, and we all have a purpose in life; and no matter how insignificant we believe that purpose to be, what we do will make a difference in someone’s life. Even if our actions affect only one person (and it’s unlikely that an entire life lived will have such a small effect), it is one person whose life is different because of our existence. To me, that alone is reason enough to keep going in the face of disappointment.

Writer Teresa Shimogwa has the following to say about disappointment: “[When disappointment] turns into devastation, it becomes destructive and crushing, potentially putting [us] in danger.” Our goal, then, is to acknowledge disappointment (because ignoring it is not the answer either) without letting it devastate us. This also answers the question of how long we should let ourselves wallow in our disappointment: acknowledge it, give it the space to make itself known, and then move on to bigger and better things. Remember: we all have a purpose in life, and we have a responsibility to the world to fulfil that purpose to the best of our ability. Living a meaningful life comes from doing things that matter, and that is only possible if we can shift our perspective and pick ourselves up after a disappointment.

I recently found a practical way of changing the way I view disappointment in the work of behavioural scientist, Professor Arthur Brooks. In an interview with podcaster Rich Roll, he tells us to “never, never, never waste sacrifice. Never waste your suffering.” To achieve this, he encourages his students to keep a “failure and disappointment list,” the method for which is simple: we start out by writing down whatever disappointment or failure we have suffered in a notebook, and leaving two blank lines underneath this. A month later, we go back and, on the first blank line, write down something we’ve learned from the disappointment. Three months later, on the second blank line, we write down one good thing that has happened as a result of the disappointment. By doing this, we get to see that firstly, disappointments are opportunities to learn valuable lessons, and secondly, that they often open the door for new things to emerge. In other words, they are a source of meaning without which we can’t grow as people.

Make no mistake: even as I’m writing this, I’m a little worse for wear—and I’m in no mood to keep going. But at the same time, I have to acknowledge that disappointment, while being an inevitable pain in the ass, is an opportunity to learn, to grow, and to find meaning in a seemingly unfortunate turn of events. Going forward, my plan is to ride the wave until it spits me out onto the beach; then get up, dust myself off, readjust my bikini top, and get back into the ocean. Meaning happens in the moments when we have to choose between staying down or getting up and moving on—and without meaning, life has no purpose.

In the aforementioned bad-ish movie, one of the characters says:

All I know is the mistakes I’ve made [insert slight editing] have made me who I am today. If I were to go back and relive it differently, I wouldn’t be me. And I like me.

As a thought experiment, philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche came up with the idea of the “eternal recurrence“’ or “eternal return,” which posits that we live our lives over and over again infinitely, and that in every life, every detail is exactly the same. To quote Nietzsche in Thus Spake Zarathustra:

‘Now do I die and disappear,’ would you say, ‘and in a moment I am nothing. Souls are as mortal as bodies. But the plexus of causes returns in which I am intertwined, it will again create me! I myself pertain to the causes of the eternal return.

I come again eternally to this identical and selfsame life, in its greatest and its small, to teach again the eternal return of all things.

This experiment aims to test our attitudes toward our own lives, and it asks us to investigate whether we would want to relive the life we have now eternally. “‘Do you want this again and innumerable times again?’” asks Nietzsche in The Gay Science.

By way of elaborating on the notion of the eternal recurrence, Nietzsche also talks about amor fati, or “love of fate.” According to him, we must not only accept the eternal recurrence, but we must also love it:

My formula for human greatness is amor fati: that one wants to have nothing different, not forward, not backward, not in all eternity. Not merely to bear the necessary, still less to conceal it…but to love it.

Even if life is suffering (which is another Nietzschean idea), we must nevertheless cultivate a life-affirming attitude and embrace our lives and all that they entail. By way of testing this attitude, Nietzsche asks us, “How well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to long for nothing more fervently than for this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?”

So, what does all this mean for the time traveller who wishes to change that life?

In his book, Inspirations From Star Trek: How It Motivates Us to Create a Better World and a Brighter Future, author and trekkie Jack Zheng discusses the potential meaning of time travel as it is depicted in the Star Trek series. Zheng’s proposition that time travel is possible raises two questions: firstly, is the course of our lives—our fate—cast in stone, or is there room for free will and self-effort? And secondly, is it in our best interest to change the past, given that it is the source of who we are in the present? In the case of the question of fate and free will, there are many theories, my favourite being the words of the aforementioned movie’s character: “Fate is a tricky lady. When you try to figure her out, you just get more confused.”

With regard to the soundness of changing the past, Zheng makes specific reference to the Star Trek character, Captain Kathryn Janeway, and her desire to fix past mistakes. Zheng posits that, by changing the past, she misses out on the opportunity to learn from the errors she has made. Furthermore, when she fixes past mistakes by making sure they never happen, she fails to become the person who had the wisdom to learn from those mistakes and who was able to fix them. Like the unnamed character from the movie we shall not mention, Zheng believes that all our experiences—both good and bad—contribute to the person we are, and if we change even one thing, we risk being someone completely different.

Personally, if I could change one thing about my life, it would be using my time better. Life is short, and time is much more precious than many of us realise. And while I agree with Zheng that the experiences I’ve had heretofore have made me who I am, I do wish I could redo all those times that I, for example, stayed in bed because I was too lazy to get up, or watched something I’ve seen before because I was procrastinating, or avoided spending time with loved ones because I was too cold to go out. I should point out that for me, spending my time well is about more than efficiency and productivity—it is about engaging in meaningful activities, whatever they may be, that will ultimately contribute to my overall sense of contentment, enjoyment, and satisfaction. And if I could change one thing using time travel, it would be how I spent my time.

Of course, travelling back in time is not an option (I’m pretty sure), which means my only other alternative is to spend my remaining days on earth living the kind of life I wouldn’t want to redo. It is up to me to decide how I spend my time, and if being more mindful of this is the beginning of a new journey, then I would like to believe I am one step closer to coming to love fate and embracing the idea of the eternal recurrence. And as a start, I will stop feeling bad about “wasting” my time watching the movie that inspired this essay…because without it, I would still be the unaware and uninspired person I was two days ago.