Just because we can conceive of a thing doesn’t mean it exists. Take objectivity, for example. We know subjectivity exists, because if you ask five people the same question, they will show it to you. And the omnipresence of subjectivity begets speculation about what the absence of subjectivity might be like. So we give that a name and try to enshrine it in our policies of fact and justice, as if it makes perfect sense for an absence to prove a presence.

But how does it? Who could be unbiased? Where is the place, external to all interests, that an unbiased person could stand?

And then there’s peace. The idea of peace, that is. There’s a transitory internal experience with that name, which begets speculation about a world where everybody could feel that all the time. So we extrapolate from the subjective to the objective, and put the redefined word on posters and jewelry and demonstration signs, and in sermons and meditations and prayers and pleas, and ignore most of human history, as if saying it enough times must call it forth.

But humans are a quarrelsome lot, or at least enough humans are that the rest of us can’t steer clear of their fallout, which makes peace about as concrete as objectivity.

Do they really do us any good, these aspirational ideas, or do they only cause us pain? The activist manual insists they keep us striving for improvement, like that’s beneficial. But maybe improvement is yet another of those dubious abstractions. Is there any evidence humans as a species are growing mentally and emotionally? Or have we conflated biological evolution with technological invention, and arbitrarily – or wishfully – designated the latter as evidence of the former? Our inventions include the means to destroy the planet, and every life upon it, but not the means to preserve and nurture all that.

The thing about evolution is, it works on a grand scale, encompassing multitudes of lives and eons of time. Evolution paints in broad strokes, and doesn’t trouble itself with petty details, like the faces of individuals whose lives wink in and out in the blink of a cosmic eye. A subset of pursuers of peace, objectivity, improvement and wisdom just large enough to keep the quarrelsome majority from self-annihilation is “mission accomplished” for evolution. Evolution doesn’t care whether such a role is eternally, excruciatingly cruel to that minority contingent. Enlightenment is irrelevant to evolution. Only perpetuation scores.

And if the tendency of humans to kill each other by the thousands seems wasteful, that’s a prejudiced view that overestimates our significance to the ecosystem. There’s a hungry food chain full of microbes and insects and other scavengers to be fed, and one species of corpse is as good as another. It’s only in our own estimation that our minds are more important than our meat. Ecologically speaking, we’re probably more useful – and definitely less harmful – as dinner.

So if we aren’t actually evolving, or even capable of it, what does constant striving get us, besides tired?

 
This is where I start to feel the need of wisdom. Do I dare to infer there is such a thing from the glaring lack of it everywhere I look? Hardly sounds logical, does it? Ergo, I dare not. I merely wish, wistfully.

Religions lure us with authenticated keys to wisdom, or so they say, but if you want to try, you have to buy. The cost in time and submission is dear, and if you are unsatisfied with your purchase, they’ll say you haven’t paid enough yet.

Their positions on striving vary. Some favor it, so long as you strive per their instructions, no questions asked. Others oppose striving, but strive not to strive. This doesn’t inspire confidence in their guidance to an understanding that answers all questions and heals all wounds.

Is it cynical to question whether the good fight is a purpose sufficient unto to itself, regardless of unproved assumptions, or results? Or is it wisdom to come to peace with an objective assessment that improvement is a fantasy? But wisdom, peace, objectivity and improvement are all fantasies themselves, so how can I? I can only continue to grieve for what I can hold in my heart, but never, ever touch.