For all who participated, we enjoyed thirty days of Stewie the Stoic’s take on Seneca’s philosophy of being a Stoic. Specifically, about fifty of Sececa’s letters to Lucilius, an acolyte and fellow, budding Stoic.
Death & Fortune
These were the two dominant topics that we found in nearly every writing example we analyzed. If we weren’t discussing the actual End, we were talking about our “awareness of self” along the way—to the End. That, in addition to how fortune (or misfortune) taunts us into betraying ourselves.
These will be the points with which I’ll be stumbling away, drunk on philosophy.
- I will die. When, matters little. How one manages the approach and final act will set the tone for one’s daily well-being.
- In the mean time, live in self awareness of the origin and intent of my desires: be not their slave, but neither their master.
- Fortune comes in many flavors: fame, riches, luck, comfort. Neither pursue its presence nor lament its absence. That which benefits, accept with humility; that which diminishes receive with fortitude.
That’s pretty much it, for now.
Thanks for tagging along.
Why haven’t you returned my emails? You don’t text me, nor twitter. What’s up?
Google will never delete your account. It will continue to accumulate email long after you die. Consider all the accounts you will leave gathering correspondence years after your fingers have ceased to digitally transmit. The Archive of the Dead. Talk about a Dead Letter Queue.
Think of all the millions of accounts that, right now, continue to collect their penis enlargement, their Nigerian prince, their Russian wife emails. And consider all the languishing friends and ancient lovers seeking to reconnect. The forgotten business associates, the friends of friends who read your book, saw your paintings, wondered about your clever children — their communiques swallowed by the pit of an abandoned account.
I’m slumbering here, terra-incognita, considering your inquires as I softly chuckle at the thought of sharing your subterranean abode. Why the urgency? Do you sense the closing of doors? The drawing of curtains? Will our letters find each other in the Ether-space once you surrender your daily toils? Or will the silicon memory that embodies our digital personas petrify, become crystal quartz again as the eons enfold us?