I just finished reading a book about a guy who goes through life thinking that nothing matters. He doesn't care about anything because he figures we're all gonna die anyway, so what's the point?
I really hate this view on life. I feel deep pity for anyone who truly believes that there is nothing in life worth living for.
However. . . .
There are times when I get caught up in the daily slog of things and I forget that each day is a new, irretrievable treasure. Especially in January/February when life is more sloggish than usual. It's hard to be excited about life when the sun is in partial-hibernation mode and it's so cold outside it hurts; but it's easy to retreat into uncaring mode, even if you're a pretty content and optimistic human being like me.
Eventually, though, I always remember that I have so many things that matter, things that matter so much that they overshadow any moods I get myself into. Sometimes I even realize this before March releases me from the dark prison of winter.
This year, the trigger for me was the release of a book I've been waiting to read for 10 years. The anticipation for the book and the delight I experienced reading it was enough to yank me out of my uncaring mode and back into a fast-paced life of delight. Work was satisfying again. School was fun again. Snow was magical again. It was like (to use a Wheel of Time analogy) I had embraced saidar again after not touching the Source for a few weeks.
Of course, there is a downside to living a life of passions. Such as one restless night because you finish the book you've been preparing to read for 10 years and then you are morally obligated to lie in bed for hours afterward thinking about it, and another restless night the next day because you keep replaying the last five seconds of the BYU-St. Mary's game in your head.
But, if I have to sacrifice a little sleep to live a life of passions, I'll take it. That is, as long as I don't miss out on too much sleep, because it just so happens that I'm passionate about sleep too.