Keats, as a non-stupid
Romantic, was in a bad place. First of all, anyone who lives for
emotion and occasional
transports of
divine inspiration will have their footsteps dogged by death... the inevitable decline of love's first passions, the friendships that wither while you're apart, all the way down to the occasional bad day when everything seems to suck for no good reason. But then there's the much larger death, ultimately
the heat death of the universe. Even if you live well, and even if you live on through the people you've loved or inspired, ultimately everything will
die. In
Håvamål proverbs,
Odin the all-father told the people
Cattle die and kindred die.
Gods and men die.
You yourself will one day die.
There is only one thing that will live on
The name, good or bad, that you have left for yourself.
But he was being
dumb. Your name will die. Everyone who knew you will die, and everyone they knew will die too. Even if our children or great-great-grandchildren make the leap to incorruptible
silicon synapses and simulated biochemicals and infinitely reproducible digital minds, living on near zero energy with
megahertz thoughts that span centuries, eventually the universe will dodder towards maximum
entropy and none of it will mean a thing anymore.
Everything is going to go away. Everything is ephemeral. You have to
deal with that; there's no
choice. All we have is our own
enjoyment and
understanding of life, and if we choose to believe in other people we have that which we can bring to them as well. It's kind of stupid to feel bad that your name is writ on water; everything is. It always has been, and it will be no matter what you do. So have
fun or something. Do something meaningful anyway.
Drink from the cup as if it's already broken, because you know that it is.