Comment on a Comment

"Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he's been robbed. The fact is that most putts don't drop, most beef is tough, most children grow up to be just people, most successful marriages require a high degree of mutual toleration, and most jobs are more often dull than otherwise. Life is like an old time journey...delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders, and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas, and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride."
—Anonymous comment to my "Fuck It All" post

Well put and well expressed. But you might as well been more direct and said, "Shut your pie-hole, you whiny little spoiled bitch. Nobody said life would be easy. And who ever said life was fair?" And I could certainly find you a large group of people who would heartily support you in such sentiments. (Many of whom I'm related to...) All in all, though, not particularly helpful, or even apropos to what I was writing about. And I'm not looking for advice or criticism or even sympathy for the things I write here. In spite of my relentless efforts to the contrary, in my heart, I gave up seeking my needs from others a long time ago. I do this simply because this is what I do. And a wise friend told me recently that I should write as if no one were reading.

"crying for sympathy crocodiles cry for the love of the crowd and the three cheers from everyone"
—Robert Smith of The Cure, "Disintegration"

I certainly don't think "normal" life is bliss. Nor do I feel "robbed" of anything. More that I've been given something that I don't want, and there's no graceful way to rid myself of it. I, like everyone else, can only judge my own existence through the context of my own experience. I think life is terrifying, inscrutible, ugly and a slow entropic dissolution of the soul. I ascribe no personal value or meaning to it. I would gladly give it up for another if I could. Find me a vampire, and I would offer my neck. Given my views on life, the desire for it and the outside assignment of value to it, even from something evil and corrupt, would move me to offer my life without hesitation. Hence my complete disinclination to create it.

However, since it is illogical to extrapolate the perception and experience of others from my own (just as everyone or anyone else's perception and experience is completely irrelevant to my own), I don't impose my view on those who wish to reproduce, which is why I'm not a proponate of VHEMT (though I'm sympathetic to their point of view). All of the people whom I personally know who have had children are kind, decent people, and they see value in the life they give their offspring. In truth, I take joy in their joy and offer them sincere happiness and congratulations.

But most importantly, I don't presume to know the mind of God. If He did not want life to exist, then life simply would not exist. He created life, thus all life must have value, even my own. (But you won't find me thanking Him, or anyone, "for letting [me] have the ride" any time soon.) It is this article of faith and the surrender of myself to something greater than myself and everyone else, individually or collectively, that drives the engine of my will. I can't tell you how hard it is to get up, get to work, smile and be a productive little citizen when you've spent the previous evening on the nether regions of despair. And sometimes the effort of (literally) putting one foot in front of the other seems completely insurmountable. But as long as I make the effort to do so, then I am still moving forward.

Teenage Angst Poem

It's kind of sad how my predictably-depressing high school poems still reflect my thoughts and feelings so completely now. The one below started as a reflection on suicide, but when I got caught up in the process of creating it re-energized and re-engaged me, ironically dissipating my black mood. Believe it or not, this is the "nice version" of this dreary little poem. I edited it from its original version much later (and completely eradicated another poem) out of religious conviction.


"Why"

Don't ask me why.
There is no point to that question.

I hate you
As much as I hate everyone else
As much as I hate life itself.
I will never understand
What God has done to me.

I am too tired
To be a victim of my own despair any longer
Or to face my most ungracious future
Or to live with my unfulfilled past.
I am too tired
For mortal sleep.

Life is a question without an answer,
A problem without a solution,
And I cannot bear it.

If only
I could be undone.