OK, so, honestly, and easily-assessed, I am coming out of another period of major self-doubt and self-hatred, etc. There will be more.
I've been at the edge of tears many times recently. Many, many times. Because life is meaningless. Because I still want to struggle. I can't, to quote, ugh, the fucking Shawshank Redemption, "get busy dying". I can't. Even though I want to. So badly.
But the whole question, the meaning of life, is a distraction. Yes, life is meaningless. It is. You can say, well, I do this thing, and it means something to me, and therefore... blah blah. It's really a sign of the spiritual and political poverty of our present era that, if you were to ask anyone as to the meaning of life, you know, happy, well-adjusted people, or those who pretend to be, well, they would probably provide an answer that was so selfish and narcissistic, so rooted in personal pleasure, oblivious desires, that the temptation to jump off a bridge would suddenly have a corresponding physical desire.
(And "but" always deserves a paragraph in solitude.)
The fact of the matter is. We Exist. We Do. So, instead of worrying about the meaning of life, simply ask yourself... should life persist?
I think so. And so do you.
(You are here, aren't you? If you felt otherwise, I would consider: pepperoni pizza, the services of highly-skilled prostitutes, heroin. I'm boring comparatively, and maybe even absolutely.)
We can talk about the venality and the violence until the end of days, if such a relief should ever be provided, but.
It was a week ago or so, and I was at the height of my despair, a years-long despair that has seen me drunk, wandering the streets of Brooklyn, crying over the fact that buildings exist. That buildings exist. And I was listening to Sly and the Family Stone, and, I have to say, really, that, initially, the thought occurred to me that we should all just gradually bow out.
Panda bears are cuter, anyways. Regardless of their behavior (after all, who would be around to moralize?).
But then I thought about the possibility of nobody ever hearing Sly and the Family Stone again. And that thought filled me with more sadness than I had ever felt in my life. It wasn't even a happy Sly record. I was listening to There's a Riot Goin' On. Fuck. And I still thought that, why not? Why would it be better to have this album be something to be shat on by birds in the ruin of what nothing is around to call a home?
We live. And life is not as it should be. Capitalism persists, suffering is needless and prevalent. So what are we going to do about it?
That's the next question to answer.