A weight has been lifted from my soul.
Probably of no importance to anyone but me, but that's the way it should be, after all. I have made a discovery about myself: I am indeed a mediocre bad guy... and strangely, that's ok with me too.
My foray into the world of immorality has been short-lived and stellar only in its propensity for failure. And I am left feeling like... a good person. Perhaps this is perverse, but I think that actually, it is just human nature. I am not a bad person for imagining a life different from the one that I have created, and I have never intentionally hurt anyone, and so refuse to blame myself for other people's pain. Perhaps this is a callous stance, but it is not meant to be. I am so very sorry for hurting people that I can't even begin to express my regret, but I realize too that in many ways "life _is_ pain, highness". The pain of living every day simply manifests itself in varying ways. There is the pain of loss, the pain of betrayal, the pain of dissappointment, the pain of loneliness, the pain of incomprehension, the pain of ineptitude, the pain of ignorance, the pain of knowledge, the pain of habitual repetitive motion. There is physical pain, and emotional pain, there is bald aching outrage and there is a silent deterioration of spirit. There is the pain of inexpression and there is the pain of repression and the pain of opression and the pain of the world's enormity and the individual's insignificance. There is the pain of destruction and the pain of construction and, of course, the pain of fear, the pain of aging, the pain of youth, the pain of birth, the pain of death, the pain of pain itself.
I sometimes hurt like an open wound for all of these things, but thinking on Schopenhauer, I know in my heart of hearts that I am meaningless, that life itself is meaningless in terms of the individual. Does this mean that I will cease to perceive life as an individual, that I will desist seeking acheivement and success for myself? Of course not, there is no other way to humanly be. What I do realize (and I promise to contradict myself somewhere down the line, when the grinding, blinding pain of the quotidienne wears me down) is that ultimately we are responsible for our own happiness and that we are not meant to be eternally blissful, nor are we meant to live life in a constant state of tingling sensation. Human life, like that of all animals on this planet is still subject to the immensity of nature's forces. In an instant, families, whole communities of human individuals, all with their own aspirations and successes, and defeats and pain, can be wiped clean, their existence a vague memory in the minds of all but those who immediately survive them. And then, there is the pain of helplessness, animal inability to master one's universe to change the way that life plays out its hand.
What is the difference then if I exist or not? To all but me, and those immediately around me, nothing absolutely. But what is the alternative? Not existing... and not existing means just the absence of all that I know, which frankly, doesn't seem too appealing. Life happens while we are washing the dishes and diapering the children and cooking dinner and laughing too loud and too long at the absurd. You don't have to live the rest of your life in one moment, you don't have to create some trascendental piece of work, not even once, you just have to live the best that you can... and sometimes that means fucking up, and hurting the people that you love, and asking for forgiveness, sometimes it means losing and letting go, sometimes it means admitting your failures and moving on.
But right now, it just means holding my baby in my arms and being the one thing that I do best, which is being a mother.
My foray into the world of immorality has been short-lived and stellar only in its propensity for failure. And I am left feeling like... a good person. Perhaps this is perverse, but I think that actually, it is just human nature. I am not a bad person for imagining a life different from the one that I have created, and I have never intentionally hurt anyone, and so refuse to blame myself for other people's pain. Perhaps this is a callous stance, but it is not meant to be. I am so very sorry for hurting people that I can't even begin to express my regret, but I realize too that in many ways "life _is_ pain, highness". The pain of living every day simply manifests itself in varying ways. There is the pain of loss, the pain of betrayal, the pain of dissappointment, the pain of loneliness, the pain of incomprehension, the pain of ineptitude, the pain of ignorance, the pain of knowledge, the pain of habitual repetitive motion. There is physical pain, and emotional pain, there is bald aching outrage and there is a silent deterioration of spirit. There is the pain of inexpression and there is the pain of repression and the pain of opression and the pain of the world's enormity and the individual's insignificance. There is the pain of destruction and the pain of construction and, of course, the pain of fear, the pain of aging, the pain of youth, the pain of birth, the pain of death, the pain of pain itself.
I sometimes hurt like an open wound for all of these things, but thinking on Schopenhauer, I know in my heart of hearts that I am meaningless, that life itself is meaningless in terms of the individual. Does this mean that I will cease to perceive life as an individual, that I will desist seeking acheivement and success for myself? Of course not, there is no other way to humanly be. What I do realize (and I promise to contradict myself somewhere down the line, when the grinding, blinding pain of the quotidienne wears me down) is that ultimately we are responsible for our own happiness and that we are not meant to be eternally blissful, nor are we meant to live life in a constant state of tingling sensation. Human life, like that of all animals on this planet is still subject to the immensity of nature's forces. In an instant, families, whole communities of human individuals, all with their own aspirations and successes, and defeats and pain, can be wiped clean, their existence a vague memory in the minds of all but those who immediately survive them. And then, there is the pain of helplessness, animal inability to master one's universe to change the way that life plays out its hand.
What is the difference then if I exist or not? To all but me, and those immediately around me, nothing absolutely. But what is the alternative? Not existing... and not existing means just the absence of all that I know, which frankly, doesn't seem too appealing. Life happens while we are washing the dishes and diapering the children and cooking dinner and laughing too loud and too long at the absurd. You don't have to live the rest of your life in one moment, you don't have to create some trascendental piece of work, not even once, you just have to live the best that you can... and sometimes that means fucking up, and hurting the people that you love, and asking for forgiveness, sometimes it means losing and letting go, sometimes it means admitting your failures and moving on.
But right now, it just means holding my baby in my arms and being the one thing that I do best, which is being a mother.
posted by ilana at 8:51 p.m.
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