08/19/2026
The universe began in a state of remarkably low entropy: an extraordinary degree of order. Ever since, it has been moving irreversibly toward greater entropy, ultimately toward the equilibrium we call heat death. That progression gives us what physicists call the thermodynamic arrow of time.
There is a fascinating hypothesis that life may be part of this process. Living systems capture concentrated energy and dissipate it into their surroundings. Under this view, the emergence and evolution of increasingly complex structures may be favored, at least in part, because they are remarkably good at dissipating energy gradients and increasing entropy.
Put much less delicately:
Life may exist because it is really good at making a mess.
You are an agent of chaos.
And I think that's beautiful.
In a universe whose eventual destination is maximum entropy, we are among the extraordinary temporary structures arising along the way: fruiting bodies of complexity, briefly conscious enough to witness the process of which we ourselves are a part.
That brings me to three songs that, for me, describe three stages of learning how to live.
1. "Cry," by Slaid Cleaves.
This is the starting condition: everything you love will be taken away.
People die. Relationships end. Bodies age. Children leave. Places disappear. Even the person you are today will eventually be gone.
I don't think wisdom can really begin until we come to terms with this. Before then, some part of us is still fighting reality itself, insisting that impermanence shouldn't apply to the things we love.
"Cry" is about finally admitting that it does.
2. "Shirt," by Peter Mulvey.
Once we've accepted that things break, the question becomes: What do we do with the broken pieces?
For me, "Shirt" is kintsugi.
We often want to throw away the life we've had when part of it ends badly: the marriage, the career, the dream, the person we used to be. But the fact that something ended doesn't mean it wasn't good while it lasted. Nor can we undo what happened.
We can recontextualize it.
We can take the wreckage—the losses, mistakes, joys, scars, accidents and strange turns—and make something beautiful from the life we've actually been given.
Not the life that should have been.
This one.
3. "Secret O' Life," by James Taylor.
And finally, we surrender the illusion that we were ever going to control this thing.
As Taylor puts it, "Since we're on our way down, we might as well enjoy the ride."
Not resignation. Not nihilism.
Grace.
You've accepted that things disappear. You've learned to make something beautiful from what remains. Now you can loosen your grip on the wheel and participate in life without demanding that it obey you.
Which brings us back to entropy.
Everything beautiful is temporary. In a strange sense, everything beautiful is therefore entangled with entropy: stars burn out, mountains erode, people age, flowers wilt, civilizations disappear.
And yet, for one astonishing interval, the universe has produced creatures capable of looking at all this impermanence and saying:
That's beautiful.
So yes.
You're an agent of chaos.
Good.
Go make some beautiful entropy.
