“Words. Why bother? What difference do they make?”

Fair question, which resounds in the echoing cave of night. It will not stay answered. Whack it with an answer and up it pops, “Yeh, right!”

Nothing, for starters, makes much difference if you pull back the camera. We are all insectile. We’re born, we die, we vanish into to dust, so what?

Granted our futility, how best to fill our time? Eat, drink, and be merry, or try bettering the world for others? There is no right answer here, only that which suits best. For me, existence without purpose is a bore, like tennis without keeping score. I want to improve things for loved ones and be applauded in return. Words are my only knack.

Word-workers, like sex-workers, exist because there’s a need. Without takers, we’d opt for another calling. We may direct our efforts to many or a few – to every Tom, Dick, and Harriet or a discriminating elite. Some writers direct themselves to readers who don’t yet exist.

If writing’s your urge and you know whom you’re writing to, what should you write about? What you feel like, some might answer – but what if that feeling’s imprecise? In theory I feel like writing about everything; in practice, I gravitate to a few topics, which keep bugging me. We scratch where we itch.

I’m curious about the best way to be, how to use this gift of time. To get at that, I need to know who I am and we are and how we came to be and how others have wrestled this dilemma. I need also to assess what’s on other folks’ minds, for writing is a collaboration between writer and reader.

I write because I like to and know no better use of my time. I make the same difference any molecule makes to the rushing tide – not much, but not nothing. Human nature is the sum of human conduct, to which we all contribute. Attitudes are as contagious as disease.

What I’ve seen has made me something of a preacher, pounding my pulpit – or a prophet, tearing my crazy hair. I cannot believe how stupid humans are – not all, but enough to jeopardize all. How we treat our planet and each other – what are we thinking! How we whine when we should rejoice! Isn’t goodness obvious? Are humans the smartest species, as we like to think, or an evolutionary mistake?

My words make an infinitesimal difference – to me, for they make me think, and to you, otherwise why read them. Infinitesimal isn’t zero. Doing what I can makes me sleep easier. “For us, there is only the trying,” said T.S. Eliot.

Making, too, makes the world better. This is a very human trick. A well-painted picture, well-sung song or sensible sentence insensibly sweetens its nimbus by making order plausible. If Bach can make such music or Shakespeare his plays, maybe mankind can be saved. When I write well, I smile, even if my subject is grim. Hope breeds hope and improves the day.

This missive commenced in a funk. Some dream character was sneering at my futility. He was right, of course. What had I to say in my defense?

Humans sadden ourselves by imagining we matter individually. We don’t much, even the mightiest. “Imperious Caesar,” sighs Hamlet,

Collectively, we matter more, maybe even a lot. If everyone did their best to better the world for all, we would succeed, rest assured. That is where morality must begin.