I want, I want to talk about a few things but fear that none of this is relevant. For a long time now I have been swirling and ranting and playing games with words and the world as it is not just to articulate reality, but as the sort of self-therapy that many writers use language to understand themselves. There is nothing so special about my life, about who I am and what I intend to be, and yet the very idea of this, of this blog, creates the sort of self-absorbed nonsense that everything else that I write seems to condemn. I try not to write about myself, to display my personal anxieties and fear, and yet sometimes there is nothing else worth saying (at least as far as a self-absorbed writer is concerned) than whatever it is that has gone wrong with my life.
There are a handful of pieces where I have talked about depression, about the mental qualms and illness that somehow overtake so many people. I suppose I am among this crowd, this bleak, pretend class of people who are so caught up in whatever fantasy they convince themselves is the truth that they can no longer function and find themselves wondering what purpose there is to bother go on living.
I am not suicidal–long ago, in the darkest phases of my life, I convinced myself that I was far too arrogant (and deep down way too impressed with myself) to ever bother wondering if the world would be better off without me. This is not the issue, and I want to get such things out of the way. Sure, I am mentally ill (there have been far too many doctors confirming this, regardless of second and third and fourth opinions, to doubt such meaninglessness any longer), and there are plenty of doubts that overwhelm me to bother reconsidering the lax optimism that is a vague afterthought. I have no idea why I am exposing this to whatever public is left to bother wondering anything about whatever I have to say (since dropping the cost of advertising I have discovered that most of my so-called followers were shams, random algorithms based in foreign lands that pretended to follow me and which have been proven false, the readerless toxins that allow folks such as me, and most of you as well, to believe that the world is taking notice and that more than the handful of actual readers and followers are paying attention to the random thoughts all of us consider in those momentary times when whatever we believe might somehow influence the world).
I am frankly not quite so arrogant (my arrogance trends in different directions, more self-satisfaction with the idea that I understand things than the messianic belief that if I state something I might alert the world to its problems). No, this whole blog has been about articulating ideas that fall into the outside pieces which I write professionally, those longer term stories that should actually reach a small audience. I understand that plenty of people are merely seeking answers to the horrible questions that oppress them and this is the bog I try to function within and swim desperately to the shore of; this dank sewer of misery and mistrust that consumes so much of the larger world.
I do not wish to bitch and moan about whatever is wrong with me, about whichever concerns obsess me from moment to moment, nor about my biases, or ideas, or political fixations and social concerns. All of that is ultimately bullshit and no matter how self-righteously we rant about what is right and what is wrong I hope that all of us can recognize this. There are plenty of words we can offer to condemn whichever opposition oppresses us, and there is much more we can mock and condemn, seeing the damnation of the others before whichever morality we ascribe to ourselves. All of this is finally meaningless, this disrupted world, where everything and everyone is at war with itself and the fabric of society has been corrupted so deeply that whatever view we choose to promote is not so much reality as it is something to destroy, some insane ideology where the flaws are so clearly on display that there is no point in even considering them (should you ascribe to a slightly different philosophy).
God, religion, political parties, and all of those vaguely organized systems are part of the cruel wrong we have imposed upon ourselves. It is what makes people so uncertain, so horrible, so consumed by either guilt or superiority that everything, from everyone, comes across as a different sort of insanity. Yes, we are all insane, at least on a smaller scale. I know that I admit to my own admonishment, to my own uncertainty and confusion as my otherwise confident arrogance rants on and on and on. I truly believe whatever it is that I have to say, at least in the provocative moment. I just hope that the bulk of you realize, that whatever issue you raise to the faith of divinity, I hope that you might understand that all of us are doomed, condemned to whatever minor idea we consider to be the meaning of life. There is no meaning to life, other than eating and shitting and reproducing, the concepts that otherwise consume us more a distraction than biological necessity. I wonder how we finally compare to let us say the tube worm, an utterly mindless creature capable of surviving deep inside the magma (or even the outer core) of our planet. We should realize, finally, for all the complaints and arguments we have to offer that make our lives so angry and misplaced, I wonder if we can realize that this grotesque creature living deep inside our planet and mocking our ideas of a soul is only interested in eating, fucking, dividing itself into immortality and finally dying without realizing it was ever alive. I wonder if such primordial existence is actually more evolved than the miserable creatures we have decided that we are. I wonder if we should even bother. I wonder. I wonder . . .