On Being A Single Tile

The conjectured existential pleasures of being a tile. As in, like, metaphorically.

How would our lives differ, if at all, if instead of viewing them, as we tend to, in the most grandiose, conceited terms imaginable — as great journeys, heroic adventures, singularly ultimate missions— we viewed them in context, pictured them for what they really are: single tiles of civilisation. What if instead of conceiving of our lives as an attempt to build, from scratch, the ultimate building — replete with all the finest finish — we thought of them in single-tile terms, so to speak. A single life as a single tile, with single tile type business. Against such framing, perhaps we might emphasise care over cost, precision over performance, detail over delegation. Maybe we’d take time to look around, to reflect, to ascertain where — exactly — our tile-ness is required. Perhaps — one fantasises — we might even take time to simply live, to simply Be — a tile, that is. Because let’s be honest, being a tile couldn’t possibly take much work — especially when you’ve a whole life to do it. Now building a whole building, on the other hand, shit — that’s a lot. So be a tile, I say. Let time take care of the rest. From one tile to another.



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