We

We thrive under the illusion that we are the architects of our own lives. It provides us a neat, systematic way of looking at the world- one where we have choices and by making the correct ones can achieve our goals. We are firmly in grasp of our stories, and think of life as progressing towards a certain ultimate achievement, after which, we will leave our indelible, if not massive, impression on this world. We will then be remembered and loved, and thus, will be alive forever. Not just in heaven above, but down here, in the cage.

It is a rather straightforward illusion, and so has this enduring appeal.

Yet we cannot stop smoking, prevent a divorce, restrain anger, avoid disease, escape the rains or make love last. We are wonderful, flawed creatures when we bumble about, clumsily fulfilling the basic requirements of civilized life. We are unbearably human when we cannot profess the love we feel or the envy of a thousand suns. We repeatedly fail to determine what makes us happy, for happiness happens by chance. We stumble into unknown vistas, and repeatedly revise our most basic views. We are overgrown toddlers, clever yet uncertain. And we cannot bear this.

Why can't we come to terms with our reality?