What is one thing you can’t live without?
What is one thing you can’t live without?
Were this a question on an Oxbridge General Studies paper, I would begin by considering what the examiner was actually asking.
The flippant answer would be oxygen. I might then add food, water and shelter, immediately demonstrating that I had failed to read the question. It clearly specifies one thing, not seven or ten. Or more.
Presumably, something personal is required. An object, a relationship, a passion. Something with a story behind it.
But there’s a problem. I could happily live without a great many things.
In different circumstances, I could imagine selling the house, fitting out a modest ocean-going yacht and setting off across the world’s oceans. I’ve always had something of a survivalist nature. I could live off-grid, make do with very little and enjoy the solitude.
I wrote journals long before the internet, blogging or WordPress existed. I’d be frustrated to lose my iPhone and ChatGPT, but give me a pencil and paper and I’d carry on writing.
I could live without coffee, although I’d hate to. I’ve already demonstrated that I can live without alcohol. Water, admittedly, would present more of a challenge.
I’d miss my wife and children terribly, but missing someone is not the same as being unable to live without them. Indeed, much of human history consists of people demonstrating an extraordinary capacity to survive the loss of those they love.
I’d miss the seasons, too. The anticipation of spring, the long evenings of summer, autumn’s colours, the sharpness of a winter morning. But people live perfectly well in places where the seasons barely change.
At this point, I can feel my imaginary examiner marking me down. I’ve failed to define my terms, wandered hopelessly off-topic and still haven’t answered the question. My mark is sinking below 50%, and I haven’t even established a plan.
Perhaps I should abandon material possessions altogether.
Could I live without my sanity? My memory? My imagination?
What about the little voice in my head, the one that’s telling me what to write at this very moment? The one with which I seem to be conducting a conversation, testing ideas, raising objections, changing my mind?
That would be difficult to lose.
And suddenly, there it is.
Consciousness.
Not merely being alive, but being aware that I am alive. The capacity to think, question, imagine, remember, experience and reflect. To recognise that I exist and wonder what to make of that existence.
Without consciousness, everything else becomes irrelevant. There is no pleasure in coffee, no appreciation of the changing seasons, no awareness of love, no curiosity about the world, no internal conversation about whether I’ve answered a question correctly.
But here’s the difficulty.
If I lost consciousness permanently, would I miss it?
Of course not. There would be no me capable of knowing what had been lost.
Which leaves me with a rather peculiar conclusion.
The one thing I cannot imagine living without is the very thing that makes imagining possible.
And if I were to lose it, I wouldn’t know the difference.
Perhaps that’s my answer.
Or perhaps I’ve just talked myself out of it.
I wonder what the examiner would make of that.
Leave a Reply