That oddly worded question popped into my head last night and I decided it meant it was time to tackle the small question of the meaning of life again.
Mine in particular.
It came up because I have been struggling with feelings of meaninglessness and futility lately. The feeling that everything is pointless and that I don’t know why I do anything has been coming up all too frequently.
And that is concerning. Move to low yellow alert, Ensign. I am not too worried about it yet because there’s no urge to self-harm or “escape” attached to it, so it qualifies more as self-pity than anything else, and that’s a good thing.
In order to pity oneself, like I have said many times before, one must love oneself enough to feel you don’t deserve what you’re getting.
So it’s a good sign.
But it’s still worrisome, so let’s poke it with a stick.
Patient readers will remember that I have struggled with this issue many times before. The last time I did so, it was to document my startling and original conclusion that knowing why we humans seek the meaning of life does not, in fact, mean that I am someone immune from that same need.
There’s no logical reason why it would, when you think about it.
I feel like there’s a signature mental error of us clever intellectual types in there somewhere. Something about mistaking the detachment of analysis for detachment from the thing analyzed.
But that’s a topic for another day.
in other words, I need to find the meaning of life too, or at least, the meaning of mine. There has to be some kind of point to all of this bullshit I’ve lived through clinging to the margins of the book of life, otherwise, what’s the point?
But I have enough levels in Existentialism to know that there is no point in searching for some kind of inherent meaning to life. We are not the product of any being’s intentions. None of us have a cosmic task to accomplish. The universe did not create us for a reason, either individually or as a species.
No, we must create our own meaning in this impassive universe.
I keep trying to reduce it to essentials : what do I need in order to be happy? What are my unmet needs and how do I meet them? How do I develop a better functional relationship with life?
And that sounds perfectly logical. Suspiciously so. Makes me wonder what I’m missing.
A lot, probably.
Regardless, there’s a certain charm to trying to imagine I am my own zookeeper.
What does this lovely and unique creature need in order to thrive?
Well a very thorough cleaning of my cage would sure help. And fresh bedding.
Seriously, though, I think the problem is the cage. I think we’ve explored the possibilities of caged life quite thoroughly. It really needs to roam free.
Problem is, it won’t leave. Door’s been open for years. And the creature often stares through the door, and occasionally approaches it, but mostly it just lays there in its cage, listless and disengaged, and plays with its toys.
It’s like it’s completely given up on life.
And how do you fix that?
More after the break.
That gutter troll
I guess I have always assumed that there is no place for me in the world where all the good and whole and healthy people live.
You know, the “normal” world. Where there’s sunshine and fresh air and natural beauty and all else that is wholesome and decent and pure lives.
Instead, I have remained, in my shame, tucked away in my tiny cave far away from the warmth of human connection. Living vicariously through my projections and pretending that everything is okay and in hearty denial of the fact that it is not.
At least here in the shadows, I am not reminded of what a revolting monstrosity I am. At least here I can feel inconspicuous. At least here, I am able to pretend that I am, at least somewhat, just like everyone else.
But I’m not. I’m just plain not. I am one very strange creature and there is no point in being in denial about it.
Instead, I should concentrate on making that work for me.
After all, Superman isn’t like everyone else either.
And I know most of my shame is irrational. It is based on how I feel and not any kind of objective truth about myself. It’s the toxic byproduct of being raped when I was 4.
A lot of us rape victims feel soiled and awful. It’s the most unfair thing of all. But it’s true.
And I am working hard on figuring out how to get rid of it. But it’s slow going so far.
I think this is one of those things I can’t reason myself out of. It’s going to take something of a spiritual nature to wipe away this taint I bear. Some kind of cleansing ritual powerful enough to convince me I am now clean.
But I have no such bag of tricks. For the millionth time, I wish I had some kind of religious tradition to draw upon when I need some way to reach outside of my petty everyday self and connect with a higher existence.
But it’s too late for that. I know I’m all alone in this head of mine. I can’t imagine a path to belief in divinity and holy helpers and an all powerful being who loves me.
I sure can see the appeal, though.
Like with everything else, I guess that if I want something that will work for me, I will have to build it for myself.
Being unique really sucks sometimes.
Knowing me, I will probably write it into existence. Make it part of a story I am writing. Use that story to flesh it out and breathe life into it.
Or maybe I will say to heck with it and just plain write new holy texts.
We’re past due for some anyhow. Might as well be me.
At least this time, someone will do it right.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.