I chose this. Mostly unconsciously; I never imagined I’d end up here. But if I’d made different decisions, it seems plausible I could’ve lived a decent life. Not spectacular, but good; meaningful. And instead I chose the myriad of errors that led me here; utterly alone, pathetically desperate, gazing on as others live out what I robbed myself of.
I might question how a younger me came to be so morally bankrupt; to make such terrible choices. Clearly circumstance and innate vulnerabilities played a role. But I don’t think I was destined to be this; I wasn’t born a monster. I made myself into one, choice by choice, over many years.
And monsters should destroy themselves; especially since I have no wish to serve as a cautionary example to others. I’m not willing to suffer the shame for the sake of society.
But I’m scared; of letting go. And that it won’t be an end. That my issues will somehow transcend death.
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…whatever this means – There’s a photo circulating of an American troop transport plane full of Afghan refugees, being flown to safety. Hundreds of them aboard. The report says many fled their homes in panic with only the clothes they were wearing. It’s surreal to me because it’s current, in our time, not some old history lesson. With just a few twists of fate, one of those bodies aboard that plane could’ve contained me. I magnified the photo to better see a mother holding a small baby, perhaps almost year old. And I looked at them, mother and son, and I saw a mother and her son. With their story, and their history and their uncertain future, and it struck me that they’re really going through a lot, more than a mother caring for her son should have to. And they sit with hundreds of others, all bearing pain and stress and fear and anxiety about the unknown ahead of them, each sitting in their own unique universe. And in the big picture, they, like me, don’t matter for shit. The older and more cynical I get, the less I believe this universe needs us, meaning I’m really leaning towards there being nothing relevant in our post death itinerary, maybe just a return to some type of energy that floats around making a buzzing noise.
It just doesn’t seem like we matter enough for the universe to decide we deserve punishment. Was it Shakespeare that said something about there being no good or bad, only what we think? I don’t know. I just can’t see why there’d be chastisement in store for li’l old us.
I’m likewise generally disposed to the idea that our individual sufferings have no greater existential significance. But I’ve encountered intelligent (generally non-religious) arguments to the contrary. The thing is; I have no knowledge either way. I’m in the dark when it comes to the nature of reality.
It wouldn’t even have to be some externally imposed punishment; I’m quite capable of tormenting myself. Perhaps hell is simply being left alone with your issues with no further capacity to change or escape.
Shakespeare did have Hamlet say “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”. But my favourite passage from the same play includes:
“Who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The pangs of despised love,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from which no traveler returns,
Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.”
That really sums it up for me; the sheer uncertainty and fear of the unknown.