what’s the point?

I’ve been asking this question lately — not in a dramatic way, not in a crisis way.

More like the way a thought keeps tapping on the glass until you finally let it in.

What’s the point?

Not what’s the point of success, or productivity, or optimization.

But the quieter question underneath all of it.

What’s the point of caring?

Of choosing well?

Of noticing time at all, when there are only so many weeks to hold?

We talk a lot about our “four thousand weeks” — as if the math itself is the meaning.

As if knowing the number should scare us into urgency or wake us up into better behaviour.

But I don’t think the point is urgency.

And I don’t think it’s fear.

I think the point is inhabitation.

To inhabit being alive while you are alive.

That sounds obvious until you realize how rarely we actually do it.

Candles don’t fix anything

So what’s the point of candles?

They don’t solve problems.

They don’t make life easier.

They don’t promise transformation.

A candle won’t heal you.

It won’t motivate you.

It won’t make the hard parts disappear.

And that’s exactly why they matter.

Candles slow time just enough to make it inhabitable.

They give the nervous system something steady to orient toward.

A small flame that says: you can stay here for a moment.

The point isn’t the candle.

It’s what happens around it.

The pause.

The softening.

The decision to stop rushing your own life.

The struggle isn’t the failure

We often assume that struggle means something has gone wrong.

But struggle is what happens when you’re paying attention.

Struggle is choosing when it would be easier to drift.

Struggle is staying in relationship with your body, your work, your people, even when it would be simpler to numb out.

The point isn’t to eliminate struggle.

The point is to let it mean something without letting it hollow you out.

Art does this.

Movement does this.

Food, made and eaten with care, does this.

They don’t remove difficulty.

They contain it.

They give shape to what would otherwise spill everywhere.

Decisions are how we love time

Every decision is a way of saying:

This matters more than that.

Not because it’s impressive.

Not because it’s productive.

But because it keeps you more intact.

What you say yes to.

What you decline without apology.

What you return to, again and again.

This is how love shows up — not just love for people, but love for life itself.

Caring about your limited time isn’t about squeezing more out of it.

It’s about refusing to live it scattered.

Why art, why music, why care at all?

Because inner life needs form.

Without art, emotion becomes overwhelming or numb.

Without rhythm, time becomes oppressive.

Without beauty, life starts to feel like something to endure rather than inhabit.

Art doesn’t justify existence.

It makes existence livable.

And love — real love — does the same.

Love doesn’t optimize your weeks.

It makes them worth entering fully.

So what’s the point of caring about our four thousand weeks?

Not to count them.

Not to race them.

Not to turn them into a checklist.

The point is to ask:

Am I here for my own life?

Am I present enough to feel it?

Am I choosing in ways that let me recognize myself?

Am I designing days that don’t require justification?

Candles are a reminder of that question.

So is art.

So is movement.

So is love.

They don’t demand anything.

They don’t rush you.

They just invite you to arrive.

And sometimes — maybe often —

that’s the whole point.