The distance from my pillar box red front door to the road end of the driveway is perhaps fifty yards, a sprint I could manage in some six seconds in my reasonably speedy youth. I make that trip most every day, excluding when heavy snow fall ceases any postal deliveries. My particular habitual exercise, a form of historic penance, a duty I acquired following the passing of the previous mail attendee, some time ago.
Duties make import of this otherwise quite casual quiddity. Matters, events, continuances, commitments, that must be carried out whenever possible, whence ever practical, in their attempting they make sense of existence, give actuality to the otherwise rather pointless act of being.
The finite nature of obligation is troublesome, worrying, shadowing the concern for maintenance, perpetuation. All individuals like to consider themselves vital, necessary, not indispensable but most definitely rare, subliminally unique. ‘Tis the very an essence of human nature.