Bemused, this was another day he mused that his only purpose was to somehow manage his way to his own death. It wasn't a pathetic ponderance, nor was it a melancholy mood. Simply the conclusion of a lifetime of catching up to the rest of the world, the abandonment of any desire for a semblance of normality. It would be a long night of speculation, but a new sort, the kind not designed to produce answers or direction. It would be an honest recollection of where he had been, not where he was to go. He didn't care about that anymore, long ago realizing that there was no destination, no place to be.
It would be a night to decide how much longer he would challenge God to delay his death, how much longer he would fight each twilight without a compelling purpose or significant reward. He would leave the sleep aids alone tonight, the first time in several years. Sleep was no longer a diversion, escape, or relief - maybe just another sort of delay, another sort of wasted enterprise. It wouldn't be a desperate debate, this reckoning with himself, just a long over due audit and the balancing of life and what was to be left of it.
There comes a time when mortality loses its luster, and relegated to a long list of things tolerated as there is nothing better to do. Not a prelude to suicide or anything that dramatic, ironically, that would require a reserve of purpose now nowhere in sight. No longer of question of finding meaning or realizing the potential of one's worth, merely the promise of entering the third act of a particularly poor play, too expensive to leave early, too fragmented and clumsy to end gracefully. And no, not a reaction or revelation from reading Camus or Sartre for the first time, that brand of epiphany long abandoned for a more pragmatic erosion. Existential angst is best served to the effete, not really enough to chew on for a man determined to end the anonymity of his life.
Philosophy though, might be a good place to start. He had always understood philosophy, could write papers that got As, could explain and teach it to others, but had never really thought philosophically. It amused him that he was quoted often, many times wondering if the attributed aphorism had ever even crossed his lips. True, he could label things, had a quick wit, and could put concepts together in glib bursts, but he was no philosopher. Philosophic questions held no enduring interest for him, his professors were too lazy hold him to the task, and the subsequent people he encountered outside of college never knew him long enough to realize the lack of depth in the attenuated gestalt of his life. If he had been a philosopher, he would have been more concerned with things, would have battled his circumstances more coherently and consistently - no, he was no philosopher, more like a mnemonic meme, moving across a universe unspeculated upon, connecting others with trinkets and party favors, destined for a benevolent, misplaced romanticism.
Back to existentialism though, and the inevitable search for meaning in his life. Like most things, he had this backwards too, this discovery of the relative meaninglessness of life. Most earn it honestly, working and plodding through life under a false guideline, a errant errand, only to discover much later that it was all a false scheme, an artificial emulsifier that can no longer bind the meaningful elements of their life in a culminating sequence. A cruel and catty cut, often terminal and insuperable. This was not his issue however, as he never owned such a compass, such a personal organizer or mantra. He knew the mores and levers that manipulated his early life were false, but he resisted the acknowledgement valiantly enough to emerge into manhood sufficiently stunted to avoid the issue for a few more decades as he sorted out the debris belying the efficacy of his relationships and his plans.
The first full challenge to this subtle diversion of any fundamental analysis of his life came innocently enough, certainly not in the pages of Nietzsche, Habermas, or Marx, rather on the Discovery Channel, or some other lesser-traveled cable choice. He had watched, probably out of boredom and procrastination, as a pack of wolves chased down an elk, deer, or reindeer (he wasn't paying that much attention). Not partial to carnage, he almost turned away as the wolves closed in on their prey, but he watched anyway, sensing something strange. And on cue, the cervine prize literally stopped in its tracks completely disorienting the schema of the wolves. They skidded to a halt, circled frantically, even snapping and biting at each other. This continued for a dozen seconds or so until the deer, or whatever it was, lost its nerve and bolted. The wolves recovered instantly and overtook it and ripped it to pieces. He recognized himself in this drama, not the victim, not the killer, but the pursuer. The biologic mass of muscle and intent, motive and movement, guilelessness and pursuit.
Challenge and transition had been the hallmarks of his life, the remedy for any harbinger poised to thrust speculation or dissonance in his path. He was not fleeing from, not fleeing too - not fleeing at all, that would necessitate a specific goal, a specific adversary (other than himself); no he was not fleeing, just avoiding the collection and coalescence of witnesses that would eventually manifest itself as a mirror, forcing the unbearable consequence of respite and reflection.
To be continued...
It would be a night to decide how much longer he would challenge God to delay his death, how much longer he would fight each twilight without a compelling purpose or significant reward. He would leave the sleep aids alone tonight, the first time in several years. Sleep was no longer a diversion, escape, or relief - maybe just another sort of delay, another sort of wasted enterprise. It wouldn't be a desperate debate, this reckoning with himself, just a long over due audit and the balancing of life and what was to be left of it.
There comes a time when mortality loses its luster, and relegated to a long list of things tolerated as there is nothing better to do. Not a prelude to suicide or anything that dramatic, ironically, that would require a reserve of purpose now nowhere in sight. No longer of question of finding meaning or realizing the potential of one's worth, merely the promise of entering the third act of a particularly poor play, too expensive to leave early, too fragmented and clumsy to end gracefully. And no, not a reaction or revelation from reading Camus or Sartre for the first time, that brand of epiphany long abandoned for a more pragmatic erosion. Existential angst is best served to the effete, not really enough to chew on for a man determined to end the anonymity of his life.
Philosophy though, might be a good place to start. He had always understood philosophy, could write papers that got As, could explain and teach it to others, but had never really thought philosophically. It amused him that he was quoted often, many times wondering if the attributed aphorism had ever even crossed his lips. True, he could label things, had a quick wit, and could put concepts together in glib bursts, but he was no philosopher. Philosophic questions held no enduring interest for him, his professors were too lazy hold him to the task, and the subsequent people he encountered outside of college never knew him long enough to realize the lack of depth in the attenuated gestalt of his life. If he had been a philosopher, he would have been more concerned with things, would have battled his circumstances more coherently and consistently - no, he was no philosopher, more like a mnemonic meme, moving across a universe unspeculated upon, connecting others with trinkets and party favors, destined for a benevolent, misplaced romanticism.
Back to existentialism though, and the inevitable search for meaning in his life. Like most things, he had this backwards too, this discovery of the relative meaninglessness of life. Most earn it honestly, working and plodding through life under a false guideline, a errant errand, only to discover much later that it was all a false scheme, an artificial emulsifier that can no longer bind the meaningful elements of their life in a culminating sequence. A cruel and catty cut, often terminal and insuperable. This was not his issue however, as he never owned such a compass, such a personal organizer or mantra. He knew the mores and levers that manipulated his early life were false, but he resisted the acknowledgement valiantly enough to emerge into manhood sufficiently stunted to avoid the issue for a few more decades as he sorted out the debris belying the efficacy of his relationships and his plans.
The first full challenge to this subtle diversion of any fundamental analysis of his life came innocently enough, certainly not in the pages of Nietzsche, Habermas, or Marx, rather on the Discovery Channel, or some other lesser-traveled cable choice. He had watched, probably out of boredom and procrastination, as a pack of wolves chased down an elk, deer, or reindeer (he wasn't paying that much attention). Not partial to carnage, he almost turned away as the wolves closed in on their prey, but he watched anyway, sensing something strange. And on cue, the cervine prize literally stopped in its tracks completely disorienting the schema of the wolves. They skidded to a halt, circled frantically, even snapping and biting at each other. This continued for a dozen seconds or so until the deer, or whatever it was, lost its nerve and bolted. The wolves recovered instantly and overtook it and ripped it to pieces. He recognized himself in this drama, not the victim, not the killer, but the pursuer. The biologic mass of muscle and intent, motive and movement, guilelessness and pursuit.
Challenge and transition had been the hallmarks of his life, the remedy for any harbinger poised to thrust speculation or dissonance in his path. He was not fleeing from, not fleeing too - not fleeing at all, that would necessitate a specific goal, a specific adversary (other than himself); no he was not fleeing, just avoiding the collection and coalescence of witnesses that would eventually manifest itself as a mirror, forcing the unbearable consequence of respite and reflection.
To be continued...
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