Writing for ½ an hour. I can do that.
Who wants to read the ramblings of a stranger?
Ok, maybe I do. Depending on what they’re talking about.
Loneliness. Isolation. Individualism. Collectivism. Our current dystopian world. Hope?
What am I?
What are we?
Codes of DNA encased in a flesh shell. All that DNA wants to do is survive and replicate.
Is that all we are?
I am a recovering theist atheist. So for those of you hoping to find solidarity in faith or the beyond will not find it here.
You will find someone who struggles with:
loneliness and isolation
being overwhelmed by politics, wanting to do something, thinking if we got together things would change, feeling like it’s all hopeless
trying to adapt with a mind brought up to think in black and white, positivity, afterlife, everything has a reason that clashes with how things really are
still thinks there’s hope and it’s worth fighting for
Existentialism feels more real to me every day.
But E is nothing more than socially programmed humans who have a surplus of time living isolated, individualistic lives:
What do I do with my free time?
The culture of individualism is a culture of isolation / living alone – which leads to stress – which leads to addictions of all kinds – which leads to more isolation and feelings of powerlessness – and this cycle is how we’re pushed more and more out of power / how more and more voting rights are demolished.
One merger after another. We’re definitely heading towards the BnL Wall-E future. Maybe we’re in it already.
How do we escape?
Is it through intentional communities and cohousing? Is that the crux of all this? Shifting the culture of individualism aka isolationism to ‘cohousing-ism’?
The very thought of sharing my personal space with others makes me want to crawl into a hole.
“I’d go crazy” I think.
But I’m going crazy now.
That’s why I’m sitting on the floor of a darkened room with the glow of a computer screen as the only form of illumination. This urge to EXPRESS…this urge to express ME… to cry out…. am I… REALLY alone as I feel?
Seeing words materialize on a blank white canvass feels…comforting. So the very act of typing feels nice. I’m able to shape and create SOMETHING.
So why publish it then?
I am lonely and so are you.
I…. want it to stop and so do you.
The world as it could be. The world as it could be.
I was born into an environment that shaped me into an idealist.
Phenomenon after phenomenon.
Is there ‘a god’. Are we here for a conscious purpose?
While I ask these questions, I could be helping someone fleeing a country or someone who is starving. But I have the privilege of existentiality. The horror of the mind and the modern age of surplus time and isolation.
Existentiality is beautiful, but not at the price of inaction.
I know I am grossly misusing the term in a strict, academic philosophical sense.
“Existence precedes essence”
But as I lay on my death bed in 5, 10, 20, 50 years from now – at least I did SOMETHING.
I felt lonely. I moved my fingers. I pushed a button. And other people can see it. Hey, I feel that way, too.
Pointless. Hopeful. Maybe it’s a way out of my crippling escapist behaviors. It’s definitely an EB in itself. But at least it’s better time spent then watching another half hour of pornography or the next show on Netflix. It’s better than just being in a reverie of thought-mulling, a trance of rumination, where thirty minutes has passed and I’ve just been sitting on my bed, half aware of what I’m thinking and half not.
I struggle with this process of sticking my neck out. Of now being open to criticism.
You’re a fucking dumbass.
You’re a shitty writer.
Go kill yourself.
How EMBARRASSING. I feel so goddamn embarrassed for you, you fucking loser. You fucking piece of shit loser. Jesus fucking Christ you are a lost cause. You’ve wasted your life and now this? And now this?
Why in the absolute fuck are you putting yourself through more pain?
The pain of exposure.
The shifting judging eyes.
The flying thoughts of judgment like thousands of tiny daggers. The frown. The squint. The click. The turn. The forgetting.
Am I just attention crazed?
Yes. Yes I am. I am in desperate need of attention and that’s why I’m writing and posting on the internet because I have no friends.
(Well, I do have friends, but… I crave community. I crave community. And I crave a life worth living. I crave meaningful work. I crave doing something instead of caving into paralysis in the face of a dystopian society.) Boy, we’ve been fucking dystopian for a LONG ass time. Where the fuck have you been?
Grandpa, what did you do with your life?
Well imaginary grandchild, not fucking much. I did however, once or twice, be in just the right mood to right an existential, rambling blog post.
What I want: a variety of intentional communities (rural to urban) that shifts culture from individualism and isolation and addiction to healthy minded, diverse, and connected individuals who are aware of and participate in the political process, decentralizing power and resources, to create a stable, sustainable union with the planet and each other.
I want to love myself and have the courage to say what I want in front of others, and face the fear of criticism and backlash. I want to believe in myself. I want to believe in the goodness of humanity. I want to believe in hope and give hope a try.
That’s all I want.