There Is Never Enough

I’m an idea person. Not a fan of math, but I love the mechanics of life. They comfort me.

What mechanics? There’s what we experience, and then there’s the machinery behind the invisible curtain — a system we can’t see but that operates with ruthless reliability. Even the anomalies have explanations, if only we possessed the missing pieces to reason them out.

But we’re human, so we make things more complicated than they need to be. We resist the obvious. Some resist the idea of a God that created us. They say believers fear death, and that fear drives blind faith. I disagree. I think fear of death actually produces atheism.

Because if everything came from nothing, and returns to nothing, then life becomes a clean escape. No rules. No meaning. No responsibility for the bill at the end. Death becomes painless because you’ve denied it any cosmic weight.

But no matter what you want to believe, life has its own dependable rhythm.
It’s sheet music.
We’re the composers.

We choose whether our lives become a symphony or “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Mine feels like experimental noise rock with shifting time signatures, but I digress…

Why must I move? Why must I do? Why do I stay awake, typing this out, instead of shutting the computer and going to bed? Why am I never satisfied?

Here’s what I think:
The satisfaction we seek is behind the invisible curtain. Untouchable. So we try — we build, we climb, we self-destruct, we rebuild. We chase goals that take us up and up and up… but nothing up here fills the void. Because the void is not “up here” at all. It’s somewhere else entirely.

When you were a child, Santa Claus was your proof of magic. He appeared only when you closed your eyes, and left behind gifts — evidence of a joy so enormous it felt eternal. You believed completely, and the belief lit you up. But you also accepted the rules your parents gave you:
You will never see it happen.
It only happens when you aren’t looking.

And when you found out he was imaginary, the joy evaporated.
That’s life’s first lesson: the more you believe in a joy you can capture and keep, the faster reality proves that no such bottle exists.

You can take pills, or masturbate, or distract yourself until the cows come home — but you cannot stay in that state while you’re on this side of the curtain.

Thinking about that too much leads to paralysis. The only cure is action.

So you move.
Move as an atheist. Move as a believer. Move as whatever it is you are today.
Pick a goal — something you wouldn’t mind having pinned on a wall when the receipt for your life gets printed.

Because sometimes, in the middle of striving toward that goal, you’ll do something cool. Something you didn’t think was possible. And people will notice. They’ll point to it. They’ll tell others. It’ll stretch the world a little further outward.

And some kid — some kid who just learned Santa wasn’t real — will catch a glimpse of what you did and suddenly believe in something greater again.

That’s the machinery behind the curtain.
The dependable rhythm.
The part that never breaks.