Worries

"To philosophize is to learn how to die. That is because study and contemplation draw our souls somewhat outside ourselves, keeping them occupied away from the body, a state which both resembles death and which forms a kind of apprenticeship for it; or perhaps it is because all of the wisdom and argument in the world eventually comes down to one conclusion, which is to teach us to not be afraid of dying."

-Michel de Montaigne

For a while, I'd fixated myself on the problem of "What's the point of living if we're all going to die?" I had tried and failed to make sense of it, so naturally, I quickly took Camus's argument to heart (see Suicide). Life is meaningless, and that's okay.

Last night though, in a typical state of 2 AM semi-consciousness, I realized that I've been asking the wrong question the whole time. Because that first question isn't really a question at all, or at least a useful one. What's the point of life? There isn't a point. Simple as that. You either learn to accept it and move on, or you continue to wallow in your existentialist crises. 

I think the better question is this: "We're all going to die, so what's the point of worrying?"

Because why concern yourself with something that's coming anyway? It's not as if all the praying and prostrating and screaming and philosophizing in the world will stop you from dying. You might as well just stick your head in your shell and embrace the present (see Head out of shell).

The obvious answer is that we're afraid of death. We're afraid of what we cannot control. But why?  Why is it so hard to cast aside questions of purpose, of existence, of death, when we know that these questions are irresolvable? What good does it do to worry about what we cannot change?

As it turns out, quite a lot.

Granted, philosophizing about life's problems won't lead you to the answers -- those answers just don't exist. Just like how a turtle staring at the horizon will have no bearing on whether the ship arrives or not, there's nothing you can say or believe that will answer these things for sure.

But it's not all to waste, because in the process of asking all of these questions, something very interesting happens: you realize that none of them really matter.

I think this concept is ultimately what Montaigne and Driving with Plato were trying to get at. Not the interesting little details about how our lives are a timeline of check boxes and landmarks with a smattering of internal crises, but instead that the sole purpose of all this philosophizing is to accept the fact that it's useless.

Which, paradoxically, makes it anything but.

"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy."

 
My answer to that question, then, is that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter whether life is or is not worth living, because there isn't actually an answer. And all the philosophizing in the world can't do a single thing to change that.

I think that's a beautiful thing.

Giving Thanks

Pretty ironic how I only began to appreciate my life once I realized how meaningless it was.

Depressing thoughts

The weirdest thing happened today in my seminar.

We were watching a taped interview of a patient suffering from depression, and everyone else was commenting on how seriously depressed she was. They were saying things like, "Wow, I didn't know people could think about things so coldly," or "She talks with so little emotion, it's like she's the living dead."

There was clearly the bias of knowledge (they already knew she was clinically depressed), but even still, the professor thought that their comments were fairly precise.

But eventually the circle comes around to me, and all I'm thinking is Well, shit. I thought she seemed perfectly normal.

If anything, she reminded me of myself.


I think of depressing things. But being depressed is another thing.

Suicide

"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.  All the rest – whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories – comes afterwards."

I like to tell myself that I've resolved this question for myself, but who knows if it will all just crumble in my sobbing face.

Clouds

Midterms approach. I study.

Having studied the entire day, I went outside and walked around the yard. But other than briefly chuckling at yet another tourist-infested Saturday, it was quite a forgettable walk.

I sat down in one of those peculiarly neon chairs on the grass. I looked around at the the buildings and the trees, trying to tell myself how beautiful this place was. I even muttered the words to myself out loud, but I didn't process anything I was seeing or saying.

At that point, I saw a squirrel munching a nut a few feet away. I fixed my eyes on it. I tried to derive some significant message or meaning, but of course, I couldn't. There just isn't any meaning in a god damn squirrel that's hungry.

As any directionless person would do, I directed my gaze to the sky. I thought to myself that it was entirely clouded, yet totally bare at the same time. There were clouds, but then again, there was nothing.

I stared intently at the bleak atmosphere for what seemed like an hour. At one point, I convinced myself that I saw a fish, but shortly afterward it occurred to me that every fucking cloud looks like a fish if you want it to.

Then I wondered: what was I doing looking so seriously at the sky, pretending as if I was in the middle of some deep philosophical search? Who was I trying to fool?

I glared around at the swarm of camera-touting beasts. I sure as hell didn't give a shit about what they thought of me. I looked around to see if there was anyone in the yard that I knew. There was. But it's not like they would care about why I was staring at the sky.

I then entertained the possibility that I was trying to impress the prim and proper trees scattered about the yard. They had seen all those freshman walking across the yard, once upon a time. But after that brief moment of feigned insightfulness, I promptly laughed at my idiocy.

I'm the fool.
Stop trying to find meaning where there is none.

I started walking back to my room. My break had lasted long enough. And for some odd reason, the clouds seemed to look a little brighter, almost like shining silver.

But I didn't care. They were still fucking clouds.

An analysis of a person in my life

Funny how I never noticed the irony of this whole philosophizing thing.

It starts with some realization, imposed or not, then gives way to a cascade of other realizations. For you, your existential crises were as generic as they come: we really don't have a purpose in life; nothing would really change if I disappeared; everybody has to die eventually.

As you went along, you reflected on what a mindless fool you were just a few weeks ago, leading you to think that you're special in that way, somehow apart and more aware than your unenlightened counterparts. Curious and confused, you wanted to tell people about it. Wake up, guys, you tried to tell your friends as subtly as possible.

You began constructing new friendships, unearthing different modes of thought and insight. You saw how complicated their lives were, and shared in their troubles as did they for yours. Now, in the span of an hour, you were able to get to know people better than your junior year self ever could when given an entire year.

But as a consequence, somewhere along that process, it dawned on you that your friends are actually not so different from you. There was no way it was sheer coincidence that nearly everyone you chose to build a bridge towards was fully able of returning the favor.

It occurred to you then that nearly everyone of your age has their philosophical moments, and they too have thought about much the same questions as yourself. You finally learned that you are not some being of higher sentience and cognition. And for many, it is a painful lesson to swallow. But you did, knowing full well that practically everything you believed about your existence would have to be thrown out and forgotten.

At that point, you had come full circle. You had returned with no answers and an endless stream of questions  -- precisely where you began -- save for one important lesson: that you're not special.

The irony is, that was the whole point from the beginning. All along, what you really wanted was confirmation that you weren't alone in your existentialist dilemmas. That's why you felt the need to talk to all those people, and that's why you strove to make every friendship a meaningful one. You had set out to awaken the sheeple, when in truth, all you really wanted was to find people who were just as lost as you.

After all, being special means being alone.

Now when I look at you and how far you've come, it seems that you've found what you came for.

I'm happy for you.