I’ve spent most of my life making myself pointlessly unhappy. And I’m not sure if it’s that I don’t know how to stop, or I don’t want to stop. But either way, I can’t stop. I get attached to impossible things or fantasies, emotionally invested in them. And they become the only thing that feels meaningful, that feels worthwhile. But meanwhile I’m simultaneously aware that it’s not real, and there’s nothing I can do to make it real. And that hurts me. But I can’t bear to give up on the fantasy, even though it’s hurting me, because if I do then I’ll have nothing. And then I’ll just be left with the complete emptiness of my reality. So effectively, I’m addicted to mentally torturing myself over something that can’t be real. Which is really fucking stupid.
I’ve fucked up my life so completely, that’s it’s hard to believe. Especially when I remember back to how happy I was as a young kid. How did that person become this one? I guess as a child you’re allowed to partially exist in fantasy. And trying to cope with reality as it actually is broke me. I was too weak to adapt.
Interestingly dovetails into what I’ve been thinking about; that our made up bullshit is the only point anything ever had, or ever will have. We talk ourselves into a course of action believing it’ll work out a certain way, that certain way being meaningful enough to keep us going… and the best we can do is keep that lie going as long as possible.
but it isn’t our fault, if we get wise to the BS narratives, or realize that meaning was just a mirage, fata morgana the whole time. I’d rather be me, where I am, hopeless, than still be on the pointless treadmill, lying to myself, and to everyone else for that matter.
If truth is real and empirically good, then deception, delusion and lies must be the closest we’ll find to actual evil. Which makes us hopeless suicidals the closest thing you’ll find to saints… all the more because most of us are ashamed of it, lacking the sin of pride.
a poem! A lover is a liar, to himself he lies, the truthful are loveless, like oysters their eyes
I suppose it’s true that meaning can only ever be a feeling, rather than something that exists independently of us. I’m not sure in all cases that necessarily makes it a “lie”.
Possibly the difference with what I’m talking about is the meaning I’m investing things with can’t even stand up to my own scrutiny. I’m constantly semi-aware that it’s bullshit, which is what hurts. But I think there’s plenty of things that you can emotionally invest in that are perfectly realistic to achieve, that don’t lead to that kind of incongruence. While I think all emotional investments wear thin given enough time, some seem to be strong enough to last a normal human lifespan.
I feel deeply conflicted: I would very much like to be on some kind of “treadmill”, working towards something that felt meaningful enough to justify the effort. Even if there was no payoff. But I’m also deeply attached to the kind of acidic scepticism that dissolves such investments.
I don’t know if truth can be said to be good, if it leads to unhappiness. I value truth, but as I’ve grown older I’ve increasingly found myself choosing to hold my tongue, rather than say what I believe to be true. I don’t think it’s necessarily good to attempt to strip away the delusions through which others view the world. I wouldn’t want to spread the misery I feel around, however much misery desires company.
I keep hoping to find some lovecraftian truth, as in knowing it sends me completely over into gibbering madness. I don’t think I’d mind sharing it, if people asked. People who ask know what they’re getting into, don’t they? It’s the whole point of his work, the human desire to seek, even when it risks their sanity and existence.
I also don’t know if I really believe in good or evil. I think they’re convenient ideas, but so damn subjective. I’ve given up protecting others though, if they remain healthy they must have some ability I don’t to look away, to stop asking questions. It’s selective pressure, because a certain amount of seeking is useful, but too much? You end up where we are, almost unavoidably.
as I write it, I’m reminded of my digging into horror novels, and how I probably shouldn’t, there aren’t any happy endings there, or reasonable answer…. but I dig on, human emotion fascinates me, and no emotion more than fear.
I haven’t read any Lovecraft, though I’m vaguely aware of some of the themes. I’m not sure what it is about impossibly old eldritch beings with inscrutable motives that’s so much more horrifying than our actual reality? The impression I get is that the horror is mostly to be found in the discovery of man’s insignificance in comparison to the vastness of the cosmos? Which is pretty much where we’ve got to anyway through science.
But I’m not sure gibbering madness would be preferable to apathetic depression. If I had the self-control not to, I don’t think I would share such a truth.
I suppose ethically I’d say I’m a vague kind of consequentialist. To the extent I value anything, it’s relief of suffering. Causing unnecessary suffering fits with what is generally termed “evil”, when it’s taken to extremes. If I do something that risks significantly increasing the suffering of others, even if they ask me to, I’m generally hesitant, unless there’s a strong self-interest for me in doing it.
Most people do have a greater degree of self-protection when it comes to unpleasant truths, but you never know when that bubble might finally get punctured. And if not, they won’t understand what you tell them anyway, so why bother?
I think a lot of people feel the fascinating pull of horror. We’re intrigued by the worst reality has to offer, we want to understand it, and in so doing find a way to somehow overcome it. But I often find such things are too much for me, and leave me even more unable to accept reality as a whole. Stories containing cannibalism particularly seem to have that impact – there’s something about people turning on each other in order to survive that strips away the veneer of society. I find historical accounts from famines especially troubling. Starve a person or a nation for long enough and the animal is revealed.