Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert…. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works ye mighty and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

--Percy Bysshe Shelley


I cannot hope to match the masterful poetry of Shelley. Which is why I have presented Ozymandias, rather than attempt to produce some expression of my own, which will no doubt pale in comparison. I am conscious of an emotional monster coiling itself around, it seems to me, the very kernel of my being. In my unending attempts to analyze and thus isolate a cause for this melancholy, it has occurred to me that I may have fallen victim to perfectionism, and more so to its polar opposite: apathy.

Perfectionism, an inherently unrealistic ideal, has the capacity to become a disease: setting standards that are unattainable is bound to ruin one’s appetite for achievement, for one is never able to reach what he aims for. With each successive attempt and subsequent failure, the will to strive is steadily drained until one is left with no desire to continue. Such a state may result, among others, in two reactions: complete depression or apathetic existence. I believe I have fallen victim to the latter. Which brings me, in all probability, to the reason I have an appreciation for this particular poem.

Ozymandias, who was, by all indication, one of considerable power and achievement, is reduced to nothing more than a long forgotten pile of rubble in an obscure land. The realization that nothing can escape the inevitability of death and destruction produces a most pertinent question, one that history testifies is inherent in the human condition: “What is the purpose of life?” Over the thousands of years of civilization, there have been many attempts at an answer, some more elaborate than others, yet none that is (in mine and many others’ most humble opinions) complete. Of what use is power, wealth, status and even love if it lasts only for the briefest of moments? The irony of human nature is its desire for permanence, immutability, immortality. If we truly believed that our actions had no eventual meaning or purpose, would there be any ideals, standards and ethics?

But if there were no purpose to life, is it worth living? And what if we realize that the supposed purpose(s) of life are merely imaginative constructs of a creative species in its desperate bid to survive? This is what leads to apathy. The result of a sense of hopelessness that arises from knowing that life is a puzzle without a solution; that those who speculate are like rats running through a maze in search of a piece of cheese that isn’t even there; or like a dog chasing its own tail until it tires and finally gives up.

That is the apathy that consumes me….