Thinking about it recently, I have found that I have two main modes of thought. I can either be motivated and optimistic, full of energy and ideas and ready to do everything and advance my life, or I can dwell in resigned complacency of my vices and while away the day in nihilistic despair. It would be obvious, if you knew me, which was more frequent. Perhaps if you’ve read my stories you can make a good guess.
I wonder if this is normal for people; how many before me and went through the same thing, which side they decided to nurture and grow, and how that turned out for them.
I wonder how many people wake up every day and face the brutal realization of mortality, are hit by the same overpowering force I am, and then just push it aside and go about their day because I am one of the few who can’t handle it.
I wonder how people manage to hold on to that motivational energy, to feed off of it day in and day out and stay so busy and do so many things and manage to accomplish so much while being happy and healthy and seemingly winning at life.
I wonder if there is someone out there who is faced with the same problem I am. I wonder what they are doing about it. I wonder if I could reach out to them, talk to them, share ideas with them, if we could both come to some realization and our lives would be the better for it.
I envy those who find solace in religion. I was raised Baptist and sorely wish to find comfort in it’s doctrine again. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I have not been able to believe to the point of relief. I can’t bring myself to find peace in the idea of an afterlife. So I’ve abandoned those kinds of ideas and seek truth and knowledge and reconciliation only while I am still here, a part of the earth, however long that may prove to be. I hope to find something that will ease the hell of facing my own demise at the beginning and end of the day, and everything in between.
Thinking about it is like picking at a scab. You can’t stop doing it even though you know it’s counterproductive and frequently painful. But it’s enticing because it’s a relief all it’s own to be doing something about it, even if it never helps.
People don’t want to hear truths. I’ve yet to meet someone who does. You tell them what you know of the truth and they recoil, retreating back into the safety of not thinking about the universal, the objective. They believe what they believe, perceive what they perceive, and refuse anything else, even going so far as to seek out entertainment, media, quotes, stories, ideas, and people that align with their truths already, lest they be forced to hold themselves and their ideas up to scrutiny and see how they are flawed.
We all get to find a little piece of the truth, if we try. We could put them all together like a giant jigsaw puzzle and finally see the whole picture, but the truth is a brilliant, painful light that wants to be hidden. Finding someone not only willing to share what they’ve found, but having it mesh with your piece when there are so many missing, is an exceedingly rare event.
Humans are social creatures, so you’d think it would be easy, but it seems like we try so hard not to be, and when we do it’s always superficial. By design, barring some severe, rare mental imbalance, (if you’re reading this, that excludes you), humans require other humans, whether it’s their presence, words, voice, body, ideas, anger, or problems, we all need to connect with someone else. It is always good for us to hear new ideas, new perspectives, to widen our understanding of the people and world around us. Both are always and forever inexorable in their continuing semi-cyclical changes. If you close your mind and stay still, content with your own truths, you get left behind.
Humans need trouble, and strife, and conflict. They need that pain that comes with hearing what they don’t want to hear, and the problems with doing what they don’t want to do. All of human life is based in turmoil and chaos. We are lost without it, but constantly strive against it. We live in a world where it’s far too easy to be comfortable and stable, and so we make up things to be angry about; silly, petty things to find conflict in because that’s how we measure our lives, our selves, and our worth.
So here I complain to you, reader. I put my thoughts to paper that maybe you feel the same way I do, or you did, or you will. Hopefully you’ll think about this and feel like you are a little less alone. Or you’ll meet someone who can relate to this, and you’ll relay the story as you’ve read it here and help that person feel a little less alone.
We can really only chose, as far as we can prove, two things to do with our life. We know it’s started, we know it’s going to end, and we know that we control the in between more or less completely. That’s all we can prove. So there, in the in between bit, we have a choice, two options. We can be happy and make the best of what we’ve been given, or we can be bitter and rage against our dealt hand even unto our dying breaths.
We can make and take opportunities and find as much happiness as we can for ourselves and, with any luck, some other people, too. Or we can wait for events to be thrust upon us, complain about them, letting current events float us away as they will. It seems like an obvious choice to make, but when presented with it in real life, it’s much harder to choose to be happy.
Take from this what you will, straight from my mind to yours, with only the variable and imperfect medium of words to convey the most complex, intangible, abstract things we can imagine: thoughts. If you glean a lesson from it, great. If you were simply entertained, that’s fine too. If you were bored and hated everything I had to say, at least I’ve given you something worthwhile to complain about. But once you finish this sentence, you’re going to go on living your life having crossed paths with me and my ideas, an event which may never happen again, but I want to wish you luck in whatever endeavors you take on for the rest of your life, and I hope that you find some comfort in them when it comes time for you to depart.