This is so personal it's beyond reproach, for decency’s sake. On the other hand, it could be overwrought romanticism that speaks to nothing but existential crisis.<p>Who doesn’t want to be a farmer, rising at 3am to be alone with your thoughts and hot coffee, tending the fields that feed a nation, while the sun rises, signalling: this is creation; I’m driving the world! The answer is probably: farmers, who would happily say “fuck right off” to 3am starts day after day sucking dust and hoping you can keep your margins, the equipment doesn’t break, and the weather holds.<p>I think the angst of the writing wants to push through to something more than analyzing the pedestrian, but have the ultimate enlightenment being cool with coming back to embrace the pedestrian. Ish.<p>I’m reminded of a couple story closings:<p>[1] Siddhartha listened. He was now nothing but a listener, completely concentrated on listening, completely empty, he felt, that he had now finished learning to listen. Often before, he had heard all this, these many voices in the river, today it sounded new. Already, he could no longer tell the many voices apart, not the happy ones from the weeping ones, not the ones of children from those of men, they all belonged together, the lamentation of yearning and the laughter of the knowledgeable one, the scream of rage and the moaning of the dying ones, everything was one, everything was intertwined and connected, entangled a thousand times. And everything together, all voices, all goals, all yearning, all suffering, all pleasure, all that was good and evil, all of this together was the world. All of it together was the flow of events, was the music of life. And when Siddhartha was listening attentively to this river, this song of a thousand voices, when he neither listened to the suffering nor the laughter, when he did not tie his soul to any particular voice and submerged his self into it, but when he heard them all, perceived the whole, the oneness, then the great song of the thousand voices consisted of a single word, which was Om: the perfection.<p>[2] <a href="https://youtu.be/OsDnrFBpsBk" rel="nofollow">https://youtu.be/OsDnrFBpsBk</a><p>—-<p>[1] Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse<p>[2] A River Runs Through It. Robert Redford/Norman Maclean