2003-05-13 - 10:31 p.m.

Is life nothing more than an absurd condition experienced by man during the interval between his birth and his death? Is my life any greater or more important than that of the homeless men that roam my neighborhood, the bartender that pours my drink, the opera singer who�s voice is carried by my speakers, the policeman that sits ready to cuff me or the magistrate that passes judgment upon my way of living? Does it matter whether I die tonight, tomorrow or in fifty years? Does it even matter that I was born in the first place? Is meaning bestowed upon life or do I have to create meaning? What good has come from mankind�s incessant striving for longevity? Wouldn�t we be just as happy to live thirty years as three hundred, provided that was customary?

Ah�the meandering thoughts of a fool after reading too many books. I just finished reading Steppenwolf by Hess and Stranger by Camus, both of which have forced me to take account of my own life. I couldn�t help but laugh when I heard Cat Steven�s song �If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out� the day after finishing Steppenwolf. It makes so much sense�

�� You can do what you want

The opportunity's on

And if you can find a new way

You can do it today

You can make it all true

And you can make it undo

you see

its easy

You only need to know��