As I think about how I got here, I realize how lucky I am.

I wrote this article some years ago and stumbled on it recently. I enjoyed re-reading it so I figured I’d share.

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I cannot fathom how I could possibly exist. The odds of my existence are so astronomically astounding that anyone finding themselves in the position of existing has won a lottery far beyond an imaginable probability.

My existence owes itself to every single motion anyone who is related to me in the past has ever made. If my great grandfather in the 1300th century did not trip over that rock he may have never felt like sleeping with my great grandmother that evening. The possibilities of my conception are so far from possible that I have no clear understanding how I could be so fortunate. If my father jerked to the left instead of the right when he and my mother were conceiving me a whole other sperm could have found that egg.

My consciousness is a lottery ticket, with 1 out of a billion of trillions(or more) chance to be drawn. Could I possibly be so fortunate to have be picked? how is it possible? Can anyone ever call himself or herself unlucky? can anyone ever say “ this was a bad day”?

I cannot conceive how many probable consciousnesses there are, how many different consciousnesses could have been in my place. It baffles me and also makes me a bit sad.

I feel sad for all those people who never got to live. While I stress about how I will get by next month, or trying to live my dreams, I forget that I am living.

I get to be alive and I have nothing to thank for it, just a solemn feeling of gratitude and humbleness. How dare I question my happiness, when at least I get to BE happy.

I suspect some or most people may have wished they were part of the other billions of trillions of people who never become conscious. I, on the other hand, will take what I have, and not take it for granted

A half a glass of water is better than no water at all.

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Dying to just feel anything.

A lot of people fill the space with love, religion, family  or friends. I fill it with music. I’m a meter of happiness, which slowly depreciates the longer I’m away from music. I forget that sometimes too, like last night. I was sitting at home, calling up friends to see if anyone wanted to hang out. No one was available. I was feeling incredibly despondent and lonely. I needed to ride down to the office to pick up a few things so I just decided to go. I flipped on the radio and listened to a bit of tunes on the way; by the time I was there (5 minutes up the road) I was feeling better. When I got home I went at the piano and ended up having a great night.

People strive for meaning in their life; they seek it out so they can find the thing that will help make their lives worth living. Imagine if you’ve found that something. Would you easily let it go just because it was hard to obtain. Would you drop it because your girlfriend/wife, family, or friends told you not to pursue it? If you do, you’re doomed…or at least I believe you are.

I recently graduated from college. Leading up to it I felt a growing sense of relief (naturally). I felt that my life would expand up to 8 lanes of an open road of possibilities. Well I’m only two months outside of my graduation and the drudgery of working through a job I don’t like is already setting in.

Do people do this their whole lives? Do people really work these jobs with nothing but retirement to look forward? Well, as a 24 year old, the prospect of working just to obtain a cash flow seems like a pointless waste of life.

It’s comically sad for musicians though. Imagine all the other things a musician could be passionate about and love to do but instead they are in love with one of the hardest career paths. Would have been nice to be in love with finances, or real estate. I have incredible respect for over the hill musicians who still “haven’t made it”. They’ve been grinding it out for decades and they’re still doing it for almost nothing and that takes some real love.

It sometimes feels easy to just say, “Screw it” and go get a full time job in some cubicle. I wouldn’t have to decide between going out for a beer and paying rent. Then there’s a sudden choking in my gut, and constriction in my lungs; my breath escaping. I’m fated with that feeling unless I relentless pursue, pursue, pursue.

I don’t think I’d change that either. What kind of life is one without a passion

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