What about Chucky?

Hurry, there are only so many hours. This activity ought to take no more than forty minutes, that one only twenty. Hurry, there are only so many hours, minutes, seconds. Don't let anyone down--especially yourself.

(No one cares as much as you. Why is that so hard to understand?)

As I was walking along the water, having just taken a hurried picture for a class project, I visualized myself from an aerial perspective. Maybe it was because I had just taken note of the sculpture park's striking layout. Anyway, aerial view in mind, I turned my consciousness to those around me and thought, "Everyone is doing something." I pictured not people (this includes myself), but rather little pegs zig-zagging, rushing, panicked to accomplish the day's, perhaps the week's to-do-list.

This picture made me wonder at the insignificance of all we do. Now, of course I realize that such a statement is grim and not entirely true, yet there is something to it. This "something" haunts me from time to time. It's the frightening thought that the world would be just fine without me. We all hurry to complete our jobs, projects, etc., but in the whole system of existence, does it mean anything?

There was a "Rugrats" episode in the nineties. (One day I will feel old for referencing shows like this, but in the meantime, I may continue to claim youthfulness.) This particular episode was one of my favorites. Chucky, for some reason or another, decides that the world would have been a better place without him. The show then turns into a Dickens's-inspired journey into what the world would have been like had he not been born. He arrives on his own street, lined with unruly children, scummy walkways, and child-poverty (baby's rule in the world of Rugrats, remember.) Angelina is queen; she has put many-a-baby on the streets; has somehow been able to take charge of her parents; and Chucky's friends have transformed into embodiments of either wickedness or deprativy. And this is all because Chucky did not come into his meaningful existence. The world does indeed need Chucky after all.

If I were given the opportunity of a glimpse, I doubt that I would encounter such a gray scene. I am quite convinced that the world would be just fine without me. My parents would have had another me.

But then, the word "me" jumps out of my thoughts and confronts me with a determined stare. This confrontation occurs every few months, and once again I am struck: I exist. I. I exist.