Well, shit, dear reader…it’s Monday.  This particular Monday seems to bring with it what I consider a rather undue amount of pain-in-the-assness.  So much so that I was inspired to write a haiku about it.  Behold, dear reader…this is called “A Case of the Mondays”:

Coffee scalds my soul,
Emails breed like cursed rabbits.
Fuck this goddamned day.

Shakespeare’s shitting himself, I’m sure.  Anyway, it isn’t all angst and annoyance today…today we raise a toast to Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was born in this day in 1792.  Who da hell is Percy Bysshe Shelley, I can hear you ask.  He was the dude wrote Ozymandias.  If that’s not ringing any bells for you, congratulations: you’re one of four people who made it through high school English class without this poem getting crammed into your brain via a wheezy substitute teacher.  So for you four (and anyone who might need a refresher, here’s a fast-and-filthy breakdown:

Some ancient king, Ozymandias, wanted the world to think he was the man.  He had this massive statue erected in the middle of nowhere because, well, that’s what insecure people with too much money and too many artisans lying around did back in the day.  The pedestal basically screams, “Look at my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” – except, plot twist: the empire is kaput, the statue’s a wreck, and the “mighty” are now mostly sand dunes auditioning for a Mad Max sequel.  Shelley delivers the whole thing like a mic drop at history’s least fun open mic night.

This is basically a restatement of yesterday’s post about “ubi sunt.”  The overall message of Ozymandias is a reflection/reminder of the impermanence of power, legacy, and human achievement.  Through the imagery of a ruined statue in a desolate desert, the poem reminds us that even the mightiest rulers and their grand empires are ultimately, like everything else, subject to the ravages of time.  So whatever huge problems you think you’ve been dealing with for a while, dear reader, are, ultimately, nothing.  Everything you’ve ever said, done, or felt, is, ultimately, nothing.  And no matter what you achieve in this life, no matter what, will be completely forgotten almost immediately after you die.  In fact, you will be forgotten almost immediately after you die.  You’ll be remembered by your children, maybe somewhat by your grandchildren, but once they die or stop remembering you, you will be forgotten.  No matter what.

There are, from my perspective, two ways of dealing with this: 1) get really depressed about the complete futility of absolutely everything and kind of give up on life, or 2) lean into this guaranteed irrelevance and quit worrying so goddamn much about every little one of your problems.  Maybe even take a risk, dare to live a little…because whether you have total triumph or humiliating failure, it won’t matter at all in a few years because no one will remember it.  (How’s that for a fucking Monday, dear reader?)

So a very happy birthday to Mr. Shelley.  Now go reread Ozymandias and then knock over the nearest metaphorical statue of anyone who takes themselves too seriously.  Percy would’ve liked that.

N.P.: “Cherub Rock” – Razed In Black