Looking at my grandma’s exponential deterioration from Alzheimer’s, I spoke out to my parents about my… call it pessimistic, call it a clear, pragmatic view on life. I’m sure many great thinkers had the same view, and in no way is my view original. Call it cryptomnesia, but I will detail out what I think as of today (and most days to be honest).
Life is, by definition, suffering: a downward trajectory, a race towards the end. Everytime I hear the news of a friend having a kid, I think of an ailing octogenarian with a rice tube up their fucking nose and a gateway in their hand, which are just ways to feed them the elements that make them, to prolong their suffering. The body is a burden on the soul. And paradoxically, the soul is, scientifically speaking, a hocus-pocus concept created by life itself.
Life is a curse. Life is a problem. Only death solves it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not much of a problem solver. I’m no {insert philosopher name}, but just hear me out.
Every living being is a victim, born into suffering, born to face an uncertain fate, without their consent. In a sense (and with due respect to rape victims, not entirely), it’s like rape: it’s not their fault, they didn’t ask for it, and it’s a generally painful and scarring experience. Their body becomes their prison. This is a controversial opinion, but I feel people who procreate are basically evil, because they consciously decide to inflict suffering onto what once used to be, in every sense of the term, them. By that rationale, they inflict suffering onto independent, sentient erstwhile parts of themselves, just to have the selfish satisfaction of “creating a life out of the oldest carnal instinct: fucking” which possibly alleviates the suffering for what’s left of them. I don’t know. I’m not evil.
Everything we partake in as human beings within the construct we have synthesised for ourselves: learning to walk, read, ride a bicycle, math, music lessons, grilled chicken, those science olympiads, inter-school oratory contests, smelling a rose, getting shitfaced, meditation, watching Dabangg, negotiating cheers and boos on stage, sex, marriage, the public provident fund, upskilling, green tea and bacon cheeseburgers are a way to suppress that suffering; a way to deny the fact that we are, in fact, born into suffering. A way to show ourselves the non-existent sparrow while we get our foreskin chopped off with I-don’t-know-what-the-implement-is-that-they-actually-use.
“Life is good. Live.” Well, fuck off. Existence and the pursuit of a “life” is rooted in denial. Denial of the fact that we will be eaten by maggots or returned to the elements as burnt meat and bones. The fact is that death begins at age zero. If you’re born at 0930 on 073088, you begin dying at 0930 on 073088. There’s no way to disprove that, let alone one to run away from it. But people have outlooks. Sigh. Okay.
My mother asked me, “Why do you live, then? If it’s all a farce to you, why are you doing this? Why the fuck did I give birth to you?” The fact is, I was born, cursed to live inside of that construct, and I am playing ball to the best of my abilities. I am fooling myself just like the rest of you. The only difference is, I am fooling myself and I am aware of it. I don’t deny it. I accept and I play pretend.
It’s all too real from our frame of reference, I agree. When I feel happy, I REALLY feel it. When I feel angry, upset, bored, irritated, energetic, irreverent, sincere, ecstatic, respectful and everything else, I REALLY feel it. When I feel sad, I REALLY feel it, no fucking jokes.
I am also capable of empathy, believe it or not. When my wife or mother or father or friends or in-laws or anyone else that I give two shits about feels hurt, I feel the sadness; I genuinely understand, and my faculties will concur. The only difference is, I wholeheartedly acknowledge the delusion it all is, while fully immersing myself in it and doing my best to do my best, if that makes any sense. I’m guilty as charged, if the charge is “being party to a futile exercise.”
I have enjoyed everything: to learn to walk, read, ride a bicycle, math, music lessons, grilled chicken, those science olympiads, inter-school oratory contests, smelling a rose, getting shitfaced, meditation, watching Dabangg, negotiating cheers and boos on stage, sex, marriage, the public provident fund, upskilling, green tea and bacon cheeseburgers. Especially bacon cheeseburgers. I love bacon cheeseburgers and by extension, clogged arteries. Yum. Does that make me free from the delusion? Of course not. I’d be deluded if I said it did, and I am aware of this statement as a fact. It’s all humbug. It’s all too real humbug.
All I’m saying is, the journey from a newborn to a nasal rice tube (or however you meet your end) is pretty fucking overrated. You can make it fun, and you should (what choice do you have?) But the end is already written. One way or another, you become the earth. And the earth famously doesn’t give a fuck.
Thank you for reading, now let’s get back to whatever we were watching on Netflix.
