A man blasted green paint into the air every day for 60 years. On some days, he would blast it in the morning. Other days, he would blast it at noon or just as the sun was setting. A journalist arrived one day to interview him about his peculiar habit of throwing paint at the heavens. The man eager to show off his life’s work, took the journalist around to his shed where he had been perfecting the chemistry of his paint, the schedule for the effusing of the pigment, and proudly displayed the ongoing evolution of his blasting machine. At the conclusion of the interview, when asked the reason behind this lifelong pursuit, the man replied, “It’s the wrong color. There’s been a mistake. The sky should be green”.
A while back, someone posted, “At some point after your death someone will unknowingly make the last mention of you and then you will never be mentioned ever again.” Perhaps, that’s because this wonderful world of ours is a gloriously temporary stop on a longer journey. Perhaps it’s an incubator for our change, or simply the natural expression of an incogitable creator. But, what ever it is, at one point we weren’t here. At this point, we are here. And, at another point we won’t be here again. Perhaps we should spend our time exploring the space given, without trying to correct the perceived misjudging of our own importance.