I must be.
After all, cogito ergo dum, right? I’m an idiot therefore I am. If I don’t exist, then wh o’s asking all these stupid fucking questions?
All evidence and logic would seem to point to the irrefutability of my existence. Any theory claiming otherwise would have an awful lot to explain.
Like if I don’t exist, who ate those sausage rolls I got from 7-11? Huh? Not so tough now, are ya, wise guy?
I mean, half the other suspects are vegan!
So I guess I am forced to reluctantly admit to the truth of my marginal existence. If pressed in a court of law, I would have no choice but to confess to probably existing at least most of the time.
I dunno though. Reality is such a commitment.
Like, what if I don’t feel like existing? What then? Once you exist you are stuck, like it or not. If you change your mind, well, it’s too late.
You exist, and there’s nothing you can do about it!
Well, there’s one thing you can do about it, but it’s even more of a big commitment than merely existing on this plane of reality.
It’s true that I sometimes want to die. But not, like, permanently. Just for a while, so I can get some rest for once.
Then resurrect feeling all well rested and renewed.
A long weekend should be sufficient time. Jesus had the right idea.
Of course, the real problem is that I often don’t feel like I am here. That is how deep the numbing effect of depression and avoidance has dug this hole of mine.
I am so numb that I can’t even feel my own existence. No wonder I so often feel like i am on the brink of falling into a bottomless bit of utter catatonic madness.
I’m barely here in reality in the first place. Subjectively speaking.
And I know that’s a problem. I know I would be a lot better off if I spent less time in the pastel paradise of my computer and more time interacting with actual living breathing reality, otherwise known as the place where I actually live.
But reality is weird, man.
All that sensory stimulation and non-negotiable unpleasantness and ignorance and stupidity and shit that just plain sucks,.
The technicolor fantasy world inside my computer is fully curated. I choose what is part of it and what remains outside its hallowed doors. I have control here. Power, even.
In this world, I am confident, and competent, and capable, and all those other manly things that I am sadly not in the “real” world.
Of course, I don’t have those qualities precisely because I hide from the world inside this isolating incubator of a life of mine.
But that won’t last forever.
I am working on a way out.
I am building the special device that will allow me to leave.
Part key, part talisman, part hazmat suit, when complete it will allow me to walk away from this lack-of-life support system and maybe even interact directly with my fellow mortals without needing the internet to act as filter.
One can only hope.
So stick with me, kid, because I’m busting out of here.
Any day now, I swear.
Sweet sunshine, here I come!
I just…. have to get ready first.
More after the break.
Joke I heard on my beloved Jack FM today :
I don’t like elevators, so I’ve started taking steps to avoid them.
A flawless pun. Mad respect. Golf claps for everyone.
Impulse power, Mister Sulu
What the funk, haven’t kicked this one around for a while.
Impulses die when they are never acted upon.
Or rather, they fall asleep.
There is only so long that your brain can keep trying to get the same impulse through to the action center of your brain before it gives up and another instinct dies.
Repeated stimuli are tuned out, after all. And unrewarded behaviours are eventually extinguished. And for an impulse. leading to action is all the reward it needs.
So when it comes down to a seriously depressed person like myself who lets almost no impulses lead to action or even emotional expression and who therefore has a very weak impulse generator across the board, and thus not a lot of drive.
Hence my constant indecision. The true solution to the problem of the infinite corridor of infinite doors (the ICOID) is to pick the door you want.
Barring that, the one that FEELs right. Yes, that’s not logical. But it beats drowning in the goddamned doldrums, doesn’t it?
And barring THAT, just pick one at random and start exploring. Yes, any one of them might lead directly to disaster. Some are booby trapped. Some seem to lead to paradise but dump you into hell instead. Some go nowhere for a really long time then end in a dead end that leaves you no choice but to go all the way back to the beginning then start over knowing all that effort was in vain.
All that and much, much worse is possible.
But really good things are at least as possible. Don’t let depression’s darkness convince you there’s no such thing as light. Statistically, without additional parameters, negative and positive outcomes are equally probable.
So go out there and get hurt, he tells himself for the millionth time.
But I have too much of that cold paralyzing life-destroying fear inside.
Fear isn’t even a big enough word for it. It’s something even deeper than fear, or at least, fear as the human mind normally conceives it.
It’s a fear so ancient and primal that paramecia feel it when an amoeba is trying to engulf it. It lives in the hindbrain and shivers in the dark and it coldly hates the world for all the threats it contains.
It has and needs no source, because this fear has nothing to do with the world outside my skull and everything to do with being scared for so long that you are always ready to freak out at the slightest excuse.
And how that fact makes you feel about life and the world.
It’s not good.
It’s the scared little animal that is my heart, and it’s so cold and so tired.
And so very, very angry.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.