"Life is just too hard. Sometimes you’ll think that you’ve got it all figured out and something will come along. Some little thought, some little tidbit of imagination will come along and make you think. Thought, the curse of mankind will come and reinvigorate some obscure somewhat untouchable thing. Some thought that you can feel but not reach, think about but not communicate; some thought that is completely subconscious, comes to you. It makes you give up your “peace” and “security” and suddenly life isn’t perfect. Life is hard. Life is something that you can never understand, and you’re constantly left wondering “What’s the point?”
What is the point? Why are we cursed to think? Why are we cursed to think about why we think about why we think, ad infinitum? Why? And eventually, when no answers come, you let time pass until you die, leaving the burning issues for the next generation. They repeat your same lack of progress, and the human condition never changes. We all have one question which science can never answer nor even articulate. Why are we here? Why was I born on August 15, 1985 in some small hotel room in Lewiston, Maine? Can I ever know? Can anyone ever know?
And if we can’t, why are we cursed with the ability to think about it? Why are we cursed with thought about thoughts? Animals react purely on instinct, but humans are forced to use reason and logic. Pity us, animalia.
I had a dog once. His ambitions included eating and sleeping. He didn’t think about anything else, but food and sleep. I envy that.
I on the other hand, don’t think about sleep or food at all. I worry more about why I should have food or sleep, and why I’m alive at all.
Some folks turn to religion as an answer and a comfort. I find that a lame escape. Some people say that happiness is the only reason I’m on this planet—also lame. We shouldn’t shy away from our reality. We shouldn’t leave life to the next generation perpetually. We should work out, with our logic and reason, why we’re here, why we’re alive.
This, however, is not where our story starts. We shall begin in bed, one night. Put yourself in my shoes. I’m seventeen. I’m alone. I’m home. I’m sobering up after a night of drinking and karaoke with my parents. I just got back from an all night diner, driven by my close friend, and I’m wondering how I got in this mess. When did life get so pointless? When did I start to think?
I’ve been depressed for the past few months and such, somewhat suicidal, somewhat starved for attention, somewhat just finding my way. I’ve been gaining a little weight and thinking if my girlfriend is worth the trouble (and the monogamy). I think I’m the average teenage guy.
What else can I say? Other than that I’m debating one of the oldest of mankind’s questions, life is… ok.
So for you to understand my unique outlook on life, maybe you should hear my story from the beginning… or when I started keeping track.
In seventh grade I started a journal. I wanted a place to talk about girls and all my day’s events to read at a later date when I was more mature. Basically, I wanted to hear my virgin rants after a night of mind-blowing sex. I wanted to watch the changes in me. So on April 4, 1998, I started a journal.
Reading back now, it’s funny how A. poor my grammar is, and 2. how… thoughtful I was. Well, I guess thoughtful is the wrong word. Simple, but instinctive. I was simple, but instinctive. Early on, you can tell exactly what feelings I felt and when. Mostly I wanted to kiss a girl.
When eventually I did kiss a girl, I wanted to touch a breast, feel a bra, stroke a pair of panties, suck a nipple, slap a bare ass, lick a pussy, and completely fuck a girl. The language grew up with me. “Kiss” turned to “French” turned to “make out” turned to “suck” turned to “fuck”. The progression is as old as mankind itself. That’s a different issue, though.
Let’s get back to the topic at hand. I grew up. I learned all about life and love and such and now I’m pondering life’s mysteries. Let’s go for a small out-of-body experience, for a moment, to show you what I’m dealing with:
I’m in a room in a house in a town in a state in a country in a world in a solar system in a galaxy in a universe in a… what? What’s next? In an endless black body of space? What’s beyond space? What’s outside our little box? We’re like Plato’s blinded men living in a cave of despair. Some things can’t be solved by calculus. (gasp)
So that’s where I am. In an unknown place at an unknown time, and, to be honest, I’m not even sure if places or time even exists. Suddenly the movie, The Matrix, is making way more sense than it was meant to, and what’s worse is that I still have a burning desire to know the truth.
It’s the thinking that gets you into trouble. As soon as I think about how pointless and silly life is, suicide becomes very appealing. When there’s no real, lasting reason to live… why do it? Surely instincts and society can’t have burned out all of my logic in that area. I am a scientist. I think about things. And, after weighing the pros and cons, suicide looks very good… so, why not? Would I rather sit aimlessly and write on a laptop in bed on a Sunday night? The answer isn’t a yes, but a, maybe. The point is, I don’t know what’s next and I’m fairly afraid, so what’s the rush. If I am going to die pointlessly, it may as well be after a long and pointless life, just because…
So, I’m writing. I’m pretending that I’m good with words and that others will want to hear what I have to say, and even worse, that I do have something to say, when I really don’t. I’m writing this to say that I don’t have anything to write about. Are you beginning to understand who I am?
I’m a free-ranging, abstract-thinking, sequential, logical, scientific mind. I live to know answers to questions that don’t yet exist and questions with answers that will never exist. All of this brings me to my original point: Life is too hard. It’s too much responsibility to know what to do with yourself and why.
And, for the record, this would be an excellent suicide note." -2003
