If you don’t possess wonder, what do you have? Does a sterilized, impotent vision of existence have you trapped you in its claws? Without amazement and mystery, what is there, exactly?
Life without wonder is like waking up every day and reading the last page of the novel and concluding there is no point to reading the rest of the book… or waking up at all.
What hope is there if you are not left speechless at the spectacles of existence? You know: things like starry skies, epic poetry, mitochondria, and subatomic particles. If you can’t accept that the ‘point’ of conscious of existence is to be repeatedly (and constantly) stunned by the sheer awesomeness of conscious existence itself, it seems the only recourse left for you is to go about life in a numbed state — as if emotionally neutered by the blinders of pithy explanations, inoculated against awe in the name of your own chintzy, substitute dogmas.
Wonder, I say. What is a day without marvel? What is an hour without astonishment? Whether you stare at bacteria in the soil or at vapours in the clouds, present yourself to life as its subject, willing to be mesmerized by the phenomenon of it all.
Or go with the alternative, if you must. The choice is up to you. Just remember the sentence to which you imprison yourself.
What is life without wonder?