Stream of Consciousness

I'm having writer's block right now, meaning that I am failing to generate any worthwhile topics for discussion in this blog post. Hmmm. I wish I had Spiderman's powers. Why is this an immature thing to wish for? Swinging through a city would be a thrilling experience no doubt. Sometimes I daydream about being Spiderman. Perhaps I shouldn't have shared my blog with my college counselor. Thankfully, no one reads this blog post.

Not even my parents. Recently, they asked me why I don't write blog posts anymore, which is odd, since I do still write blog posts. Maybe even they don't believe that I could still be writing. The only unlikely scenario in which I envision my blog blowing up is if I become a high-profile criminal or if I write something racist. Then people would be very interested in what I have to say. Especially lawyers.

What's that you say? Ohhh, don't pity me. I'll be just fine. Self-pity leads one down a road to destruction. Hey! Look! Let's make everyone think I'm the worst person possible! It'll be funny! What type of person could that be? A narcissist? An inconsiderate person? An attention seeker? An arrogant individual? Why do I avoid being these things?

Nobody cares about a narcissist. Or a psychopath. These two types of individuals appreciate no one and are appreciated by no one. If these traits really are innate, it's one hell of a counterargument to the idea that "all men are born equal." If they are really born, rather than made, then being a member of one of these categories is a terrible curse. Like being cursed to be a ghost--to see everything but be seen by no one.

Suddenly, writer's block is gone. Just in time for the 3 minutes I have left to write. Sure, I might have started writing earlier so that I could have more time, but what fun would that be?

Sarcasm is a defensive mechanism, isn't it? Why am I being defensive? Am I afraid that I'm secretly a very bad person? Could it be possible that I am not as respectable as I think? Could it be possible that I overinflate my self worth? Could it be true that I overestimate how much people take a liking to me?

Who cares about hard work? If not now, there may be a time when humans will not have to work to eat, live, have friends, and be a part of a family. Why do people not just focus their entire efforts on destroying their own lives? After all, it is pointless, right? Right? But oh, the pain begins. Then you remember that you can hardly dismiss your own pain as meaningless. As long as you are living, you are vulnerable to pain. Aww, what's that? You're an alcoholic that sacrificed not only your liver but also your friends, family, and semblance to a normal life? You're dying alone of lung cancer on a hospital bed?

Honestly, if I woke up and found myself floating alone in the middle of the ocean, I don't know what I would do. This thought has scared me before and continues to scare me now. Knowing there is no one I can call out to help for. What does it matter where I go to university, what I'm studying, or who my father is! I'm alone, I'm without food or drinking water, and I'm uncertain of what my fate will be or even how long I will live. All of a sudden, I understand Christianity.

Christians are terrified of the endless realm of terrible that might overcome them. They cannot escape this fear, unless they accept their willingness to die. What would Buddha do if he were placed in the middle of the ocean? And if Buddha cared so much about isolation from humanity and stoic apathy towards the warmth of a comfortable lifestyle, then how come he came back and made sure people were looking at him? Attention-seeking bloody rascal. A true Buddha would surrender himself to the worst possible fate WITHOUT telling anyone. As my fourth grade teacher would say "Do the right thing while nobody is looking". (I would always say in response "And do the wrong thing while everybody is looking." I thought that was super funny. But I don't remember anyone laughing at that.)

Anyhow, I don't know what explains my sudden anger towards Buddha. Maybe I don't like his hairstyle. I doubt that dude would care. He was all about apathy, wasn't he? Also, he's dead.

Why am I still living? I think I know what to do as long as I am still living, but I'm pretty sure I know how it will all turn out. I'll get a job, get married, have kids, nearly divorce my wife but barely save the marriage, punish my children for no reason then wonder whether I'm a good father, have a mid-life crisis and bemoan my thinning hair just like my dad did, grieve the death of my parents (one after the other), tend to the affairs of my aging brother, envy my children as they go off to college and wish I could be as carefree as them, meaninglessly punish my children again out of spite, wonder how my life could have possibly gone by so quickly, marvel in disbelief at how difficult even walking has become in my old body, go through a painful heart attack and survive by some miracle, become panicked by my own mortality (as if I never saw my own death coming), and a few years later enjoy the sadness I impart on my loved ones in my dying moments.

I see it all before me. I can tell the story of my past. I can also tell one of the many stories my future may take. Whether remembered or forgotten, It's all going to be a story someday anyhow. And then, as I die, I will realize just how inconsequential it all was. And yet, I will marvel that I went through the motions of life for 76 years without stopping even for a day to question what it will all mean to the world. One fish swimming in a sea of 10 billion others, each fish different but all united in their self-importance and commitment to some imaginary force that pushes them to keep living.

And even though I don't know what it is or why I have it, remembering how dreadful life might be and how terrible it will be in the end makes me so grateful for all that I have now. At least I can breathe alright. I can walk and eat and be frustrated with all the trivial elements of life. And there is this hope pulling me along that maybe, just maybe there is some reason why I am put here on this world that can justify its emptiness. Some magical force that gives some purpose to the biological entity that is myself.

And I know atheists like Ricky Gervais bash religion for its lack of common sense and conflict with science and logic. Certainly, I think religion should not be weaponized as a competition to rationality, evidence-based history, or science. But if it comes to choosing between making up a story to convince myself that life is meaningful and succumbing without aid to all the terrible elements of life, I would choose the former anyday.

This seems like a nice place to conclude this post. Writing this moved me to tears. It's not every day that this happens.