If everyone seeks to be happy—through pleasure, acquisition, travel, sex, food, religion, drugs and a myriad of other means—then why is that result so seldom achieved? Why don’t we die laughing?
Ray Charles laughed: “I don’t regret a damn thing.”
How could the libidinous, drug-taking troubadour say this? Because nothing is damned, everything belongs and a moment spent in regret is a moment wasted.
Until a man sees himself as he is, he is flying blind. He goes from one mess to another.
Eventually, he becomes embittered. Or, with the ‘help’ of drugs, sex, work or video games, he numbs out.
In extremis, he finds himself in an ache-scape, in the midst of a great loneliness.
Now, nothing that is, is without a divine aspect. Is this mess the one that reveals the man to himself?