“It isn’t that I reject God; I am simply returning Him most respectfully the ticket” Dostoevsky
“How we need another soul to cling to” Sylvia Plath
“I must confess that my loneliness is killing me” Brittany Spears
The past few weeks have been sort of a blur; somehow, time is flowing forward and yet standing still. I have not been writing as much as I would like, not for lack of having nothing to say, but the repetitiveness of the motif of my suffering is too much to bear. I can only stomach lamenting my fate so much. Wallowing in the melancholy, while romantic, is a dangerous pastime.
I have the curse of perfectionism mixed with an abhorrence for trivial and self-flagellating prose. The irony of this post is not lost on me. At least I pretend to be honest with myself. I have been spending the majority of my days simply existing, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I am going to be 36 in a few days. And I still feel as if I am wrestling with the same problems as when I was nineteen. Who isn’t?
I am trying to find some path forward, a glimpse of Adrianes thread to lead me out of this labyrinthine of emotions and numbness. I devour books as a means to an end, hoping another’s ink-stained hands offer a new perspective on the problem of existence. I know it is a futile endeavor, but like Matt Damon’s character in The Departed, “I'm fucking Irish, I'll deal with something being wrong for the rest of my life.” Maybe we truly are impervious to psychoanalysis?
Stories, metaphysical systems, ontological difference—all are angles I am trying out, for some sort of purchase. To stabilize my ontic predicament. I wander the aisles at bookstores, with ice-cold coffee and an equally frozen heart, looking for the embers of another’s flame.
It is hard to turn pages with frostbitten fingertips, but far too easy to scroll aimlessly. As a means to hide myself away, which only infuriates me further. Turning what was originally an innocuous distraction into a bitter rage. Directed internally.
This is still me trying to be slightly more optimistic. It is difficult when all the long-dead thinkers I respect the most, echo the sentiments that consciousness is a disease. Too much insight blinds one to the truth of God’s absence. In the Kingdom of man, Babylon is rebuilt with subscription services.
I hope that by sharing my torment, others will realize they are not alone, and, most importantly, that I am not either. The writer is truly the loneliest; aiming to communicate their existence through the stream of consciousness is a forlorn hope, a Sisyphean labor, absurd as it is ignoble.
Many have joked that the older they get, the more they understand why Britney Spears shaved her head. Each ticking of the clock makes me understand why Sylvia Plath turned to carbon monoxide. And yet I mourn her loss, as I do Hemingway and David Foster Wallace. Just think how many more obtuse footnotes will never come to fruition.
I envy their escape, the returning of Ivan Karamazov’s ticket. However, I want to live. As much as I want to end this existential torment, I want to do so authentically, without resignation. Even if I fail, and am surrounded with underlined quotes, screenshots of passages, and eclipsed by stacks of books.
The noose, rifle, and (some) self-flagellation must always be denied, no matter how tempting. Otherwise, the romance of it will outshine any other options. I understand the pathos that all of us feel, whether acknowledged or not.
That is what connects and reminds us of our humanity. We all want to be seen in some way or another. Truly seen. Shitposts, cries for help (I pray this isn’t one), new haircuts, etc., are all attempts at expressing our fragility, our need to be loved, admired, touched, and heard.
In the meantime, I have many more books to read, and may skip on paying my gas bill until my birthday passes (Do not underestimate the consolation of humor; it saves many from the gallows and ulcers)
"I still feel as if I am wrestling with the same problems as when I was nineteen. Who isn’t?" This is a great comment and I feel the same way.
You're a good writer, Chris. I enjoy reading you; your thoughts are always clear and concise, the prose smooth. Do you follow your intuition - do you think you're doing what you were set out to do in this life? Whatever your talents and passion happen to be, writing or otherwise. And do you have community support in real life? Finding a way to join an existing community may take some of the existential dread off.
" . . . to lead me out of this labyrinthine of emotions and numbness . . . (seeking) a new perspective on the problem of existence. I know it is a futile endeavor . . . I'll deal with something being wrong for the rest of my life . . . (a) frozen heart . . . However, I want to live. As much as I want to end this existential torment, I want to do so authentically, without resignation."
All of that describes me very well more than 40 years ago. About a frozen heart, Kafka said "A book must be an ice axe to break the sea frozen inside us." It was Kafka, especially his LETTER TO HIS FATHER, that started me on my journey of seeking a remedy for my emotional plight, I spent years disentangling it. A while after that, THE MEDITATIONS OF MARCUS AURELIUS was somewhat helpful in clarifying my thoughts, and off and on I found Seneca's MORAL EPISTLES, but still not deep enough.
Ultimately the answer is truth that lies outside the self. The labyrinth of self is never ending, we need an external focus, a true external focus, not a mythological one. Unlike Baron von Munchausen, we cannot lift ourselves out of the quagmire of self by grabbing the hair of our head and pulling.
Reading Borges led me to this quote from Thomas Browne in THE RELIGIO MEDICI: It reads:
"There is surely a piece of divinity in us; something that was before the elements, and owes no homage unto the sun. Nature tells me, I am the image of God, as well as Scripture. He that understands not thus much hath not his introduction or first lesson, and is yet to begin the alphabet of man (Part II, Section 11)."
There is something in the human soul that biology and chemistry will never explain.
The ultimate answer and focal point is God - but who is God and where is he to be found? Christ said,
"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh (asks) receiveth (receives); and he that seeketh (seeks) findeth (finds); and to him that knocketh (knowcks) it shall be opened."
But I do not recommend any church, many of them are nothing but trivial and boring social clubs. Also, some new translations of the Bibles paraphrase too freely and try to make things easier for the modern reader and so lack character and integrity, though the basic message is the same.