Two Hundred and Seven

I’m eating again, so I’m looking for a job.  If I’m to eat, I must buy food.

But I’m so weak now.  What kind of job could I do?  I should go back to bed and stay there until I starve to death.

I want to die.  Or do I?

No, of course I don’t.  But they do.

More and more people are waking up to what they are and what they’ve done.  They can’t forgive themselves, and try as they might they no longer believe in a god who could forgive them, so they’ve decided to die.

Durkheim said our ancestors saw suicide as an act of defiance directed against some master, king or god whom they regarded as unjust and therefore refused to serve.  There's no one, just or unjust, whom I regard as my master.  I'm answerable only to my own conscience.  But in living for others, I took responsibility for them.  And I failed them.

Freud said suicide is the way we punish ourselves for having done something we consider unforgiveable.  But only in our dreams do we commit such crimes, because only in our dreams do such crimes exist.  

Jocasta, a Freudian avant Freud, tells her son that every man dreams of killing his father and sharing his mother’s bed.  Sometimes those of us with troubled consciences tell ourselves the same thing.  We pretend not to know what we know, and tell ourselves it’s only a dream, so that we can go on living.  But just as Œdipus knew his crimes were not committed in a dream, so are we all waking to an awareness of the crimes we all commit.

Life feeds on life.  Others die so that we may live. The church said we’re all sinners, but no matter how terrible the crimes we commit, god will forgive us if we repent.  But try as we might, we can no longer believe in gods.  We know we are responsible only to ourselves and our own consciences for what we do.  And now that we're finally admitting that we know what we do is wrong, but still we cannot or will not do what we know is right, we must punish ourselves.

Some of us try to do better, be better.  Perhaps most of us try at some time, but never all of us at the same time.  And now most of us have given up.

I wanted to live and help others, but the society of which I’m a part wants to die, so my life has been meaningless.  I stay alive only because my death would be equally meaningless.  Arranging my death—the kind of death I want: a painless death, because I’ve done nothing to deserve punishment—would take more effort than I can muster now that I’ve become so weak.  But staying alive would also take effort, and I’m not sure I have the strength for that, either.  I may die simply because I no longer have the strength to live.  Perhaps I never did.

I’ve always lived for others, and now there's no one I want to live for.  They all disgust me.

Things that are crimes in our dreams are common in our waking lives.  This world we've made, in which crime is the norm, disgusts me.  I'm disgusted to be part of it, disgusted by anyone who wants to part of it and deforms his or her self in order to fit into it, and disgusted with myself for fitting into it all too well.  I’m disgusted by the person I’ve become.      

Two Hundred and Six

We keep returning to the same places, thinking the same things.  Sometimes we think they’re questions to which we seek answers, and sometimes we think they are the answers.

Mystics accept that reality is a mystery that seems infinite while we are finite, but those we called religious couldn’t accept that we don’t know, and may never know, what reality is.  They pretended to know that not only is reality a thing, just as we are, but a thing we can know, just as we know ourselves (which leaves unanswered the question of how well we know ourselves).  

We are, or were, predators by nature.  Therefore we used to think, if we thought at all, that might makes right.  We went to war with people who gave different names to the things they called reality.  But we are no longer as nature made us.  We are no longer animals, guided by instinct.  Neither are we humans, guided by reason.  We are chimeras, the stuff of dreams.

Our wise men have said we move through life as dreamers do, not knowing we’re in a dream; or as fish do, not knowing they’re in water.  I'm sure fish know they're in water, even though they don't know what water is.  When I dream, I always know I’m dreaming.  When I’m awake, I feel as though I’m moving through something like water, that slows me down.  It's the dreams of those around me, who move through their lives and mine as sleepwalkers do.

Two Hundred and Five

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita 
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,

ché la diritta via era smarrita.

If we tell ourselves we’re on a journey, and have lost our way, we’ll never find it.  Because we are not on a journey.  We keep returning to the same places, but never stay long because they’re not our journey's end, our home.  We no longer have a home as other animals do.  We’re wanderers, and will remain so unless and until we find a new way to live with each other.

Two Hundred and Four

I’ve grown a beard.  English is an odd language.  I haven’t done something, grown something.  I’ve stopped doing something.  

I stopped shaving when I stopped eating, but now I’ve started eating again.  It's only beans and rice that I got free from the local food bank, and it won't last long, so I’m still starving, but slowly, like a philosopher who’s slit his wrists and then bound them up so that he can continue philosophizing a while.

Philosophizing changes nothing, of course.  It’s dying that changes us, making us aware that we learn nothing.  Everything we knew at the beginning of our lives is still true at the end.  What’s changed is that now we give those truths our full attention, as Simone Weil said we should.  Living no longer distracts us.

I’ve been reading Weil’s essays, and I like the way she thought.  I sometimes think I would have liked her as well, but probably not.  Nor would she have liked me.  For her, everything good comes from and leads back to god, and I find that kind of thinking lazy.  I can usually forgive people for believing in a god if that helps them to be good, as it did Weil; but sometimes I find it hard to forgive such laziness, however much I strive to be tolerant.