I like absurdism. Things like Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy are great because they show how the world is a ridiculous, mad, maddening place that is arbitrary and you cannot do an single thing about it.
Isn’t it silly, how, after living a less-than-luxurious young childhood, I’d want to have fewer things? I wish I didn’t have to have so much uselessness clogging up my room, my home, my head.
It isn’t that I want to get rid of the things I know, it is that I want to get rid of the things I need to keep track of–materially.
And of course I find it utterly shameful that I feel this way–or anything like this–and yet I know that there are people far worse off than I am–not just in the world, but on my continent, in the country I live in, in the area around me. And I think I have any right to take issue with the life I am living? I have privileges and freedoms and material goods that so many people in the world would dream to have.
But there’s also the problem that I think that I am doing well, that I can somehow judge the quality of my efforts, of the outcomes of any work I do (regardless of how much energy I put into it). I am ignorant. I am selfish. I am arrogant. Why should I even bother? What would benefit anyone in the long run? Does anything matter?
This is tiring. The world doesn’t make any sense. I know I want things but I can’t keep track of myself. I know I am buried, somewhere around here. Maybe on this shelf, in this closet, under this dresser. Maybe I am under these clothes, behind this picture frame. I am lost. But I know I have to be here.
When I am not looking, surely I am scattered in every possible place, and each little niche and shelf must be where I last saw myself–last used myself.
And I frequently find myself wishing that I had an excuse to just stop trying.