Making sense of it all

“The Ultimate Answer to Life, The Universe and Everything is… 42!”

~ Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Nothing makes sense. If it did, then I must have forced it to. I must have brought it to a harsh conclusion or given it a romantic ending, but it does not make any more sense than it did before. I just decorated it with pretty words and good intentions.

I don’t know how to live with that: knowing I created the meaning to cope with the void. How tiring is it to then let go of the old meaning each time you become aware and recognize that the memories have faded; that the new experiences have changed your story and that hope still clings on.

What a joke.

Can I get off this train? Can’t deliverance just be delivered at my doorstep? Can’t I just die when I find it pointless? Why do I even have to go through the effort of killing myself? Why can’t I just welcome death with open arms, scream, “Death, come to me. I am ready now. This is exhausting. Just get it done with.” Why do I have to live through pointlessness? For whom is this fun to watch? Who is watching anyway? No one!

Maybe, only me, and my jokes are getting stale.

(Sigh)

I am always angry. Then, I get bored of being angry.
Then I reflect on how psychologically healthy is apathy really?

I am sure it isn’t.

Should I let the blog-name remain and let it continue to summarize my attitude? Because frankly, I hate to realize that I care when it doesn’t matter.

(Sigh)

While counseling, the two things one tries to help the person with are rebuilding ‘social connections’ and beginning activities that help create ‘meaning in life’.

Social connection, I get it. An introvert or even a strongly independent person understands the need to feel support and understanding in another person. But, meaning of life.. How can that be right? How can something so imaginary at its root and fragile to questioning be the answer?

(‘Don’t over-intellectualize. Even that’s a defense mechanism’, I hear myself say.)

I wish someone knew better, and did better. I wish, for once, I loved a tangible, existing, heroic being than an abstraction. I wish people were more than just human. It’s so boring to see everybody succumb under the weight of their excuses. It is difficult to forgive others, even more to forgive oneself.

“Ulrich has sometimes wondered whether his life has been a failure. Once he would have looked at all this and said yes. But now he does not know what it means for a life to succeed or fail. How can a dog fail its life, or a tree? A life is just a quantity; and he can no more see failure in it than he can see failure in a pile of earth, or a bucket of water. Failure and success are foreign terms to such blind matter.”

― Rana Dasgupta, Solo

Solo. It is a slow book to read. While I read it, I did not understand it. A book about an old man and his daydreams. What. How can you write a whole book on it,. and I assure you, at no point, did the author give the man’s life more meaning than it deserved. I will never suggest this book to a friend, unless s/he specifically asks me to recommend an Indian author. This book comes to me in bits and pieces (like it did now, while writing) and saves me. So beautiful and warm at its heart. I wonder if I will ever be able to write like that– when my writing does not have anger at its core, but warmth.

(Sigh)

I couldn’t bring myself to write anything recently. I was just consuming content, analyzing it, then going back to more consumption. Whatever I wrote was a rant or a complain. Nothing happy to say. Nothing creative to offer. What do I write?

Off track: Did I tell you I don’t write creative stuff because I fear being a schizophrenic?
Poetry? I can handle that.
Feel overwhelmed. Pour out the nonsense. Don’t even pretend to rhyme or explain or end it! Easy-peasy!
Story-telling!?
Isn’t that nurturing hallucinations consciously? And if you are me, you will also psychoanalyze it, and beat yourself over it.

(Enough sighing.)

Anyway, I realize it’s not the questioning that will help. It’s the quest. Amidst all my questions, I forget to ‘participate’ in life. Having realized it, I still don’t know how exactly to do it. But I am not going to ask anymore, I’ll just do whatever.

Broken thoughts. Public rambling. I know this write up will be sincerely regretted in the months to come.

I ask forgiveness from the future-me, who really doesn’t have any other option but to do just that.

Ah, the joke. It’ll kill me.

Blank.

Signing off,

Tame SheWolf

WORDLY WISE:

“When I discover who I am, I’ll be free”

~Ralph Ellison