(no subject)
Look, I'm done, okay. No more. Over the course-- Jesus, I just realized how long it's been since I actually wrote a post about my life, rather than just my ideas.
Over the course of my life, specifically the last few years, I have grown into the idea that I am destined to be alone. Understood?
Here's the deal. I don't even know if I exist. Okay? Did you know that? I don't know if I actually exist, or if I'm just a string of ideas strewn together hastily and called a person. When I'm by myself, my grasp of reality slackens greatly. I don't know if I have really been alive twenty years, or if I was just spawned recently, pre-fab, built from the ground up, memories and all. When I wake up in the morning, I do not know if I am the same person as I was the night before, or even if there was a person here the night before. Most of the time I wonder if I have a past at all. And I wonder whether people experience me, not because I am real, but because they need an empty vessel, and the one they got was called Jonathan Scott Neavor- the rest, they've filled in themselves. Could I be nothing more than somebody else's delusion? Am I just an object in somebody else's solipsistic universe? I feel as if I exist solely as a function of somebody else, whether it's Brandon's need for intelligence, or Jessica's sense of humor, or even as yet another face to some stranger. I feel like a slave to reality. I have zero sense of identity. I don't even know if I exist right now, in a conventional sense- I exist solely as a memory made of electrons, an entry into a journal that nobody saw created.
By the way, Occam's Razor is bullshit. Complexity and simplicity exist solely in the wording. Look at the above example two ways:
Either there is some global delusion, so sweeping and permeating that everybody experiences the same thing, and this delusion SAYS that you exist, when actually you don't, but are instead just a complex series of concepts that are so interwoven that you APPEAR real, or you really exist.
OR
Either you exist, being this unlikely string of electrical signals and genetic code so incredibly precise that you can form words, and not JUST words, but whole new ideas, and you're held together by systems of organs and veins and muscles that not even today's best scientists can duplicate, or I'm just making you up.
Eat that, Earl of Ockham.
Back to the point at hand. I am not a complete enough person, or even sane enough, for anybody to want to experience me for any prolonged period of time. This is, of course, assuming that I exist enough to be experienced for any prolonged period of time. So I am meant, at the end of all roads, to be alone. And I'm tired of wanting it to be otherwise.
So goodnight.
Over the course of my life, specifically the last few years, I have grown into the idea that I am destined to be alone. Understood?
Here's the deal. I don't even know if I exist. Okay? Did you know that? I don't know if I actually exist, or if I'm just a string of ideas strewn together hastily and called a person. When I'm by myself, my grasp of reality slackens greatly. I don't know if I have really been alive twenty years, or if I was just spawned recently, pre-fab, built from the ground up, memories and all. When I wake up in the morning, I do not know if I am the same person as I was the night before, or even if there was a person here the night before. Most of the time I wonder if I have a past at all. And I wonder whether people experience me, not because I am real, but because they need an empty vessel, and the one they got was called Jonathan Scott Neavor- the rest, they've filled in themselves. Could I be nothing more than somebody else's delusion? Am I just an object in somebody else's solipsistic universe? I feel as if I exist solely as a function of somebody else, whether it's Brandon's need for intelligence, or Jessica's sense of humor, or even as yet another face to some stranger. I feel like a slave to reality. I have zero sense of identity. I don't even know if I exist right now, in a conventional sense- I exist solely as a memory made of electrons, an entry into a journal that nobody saw created.
By the way, Occam's Razor is bullshit. Complexity and simplicity exist solely in the wording. Look at the above example two ways:
Either there is some global delusion, so sweeping and permeating that everybody experiences the same thing, and this delusion SAYS that you exist, when actually you don't, but are instead just a complex series of concepts that are so interwoven that you APPEAR real, or you really exist.
OR
Either you exist, being this unlikely string of electrical signals and genetic code so incredibly precise that you can form words, and not JUST words, but whole new ideas, and you're held together by systems of organs and veins and muscles that not even today's best scientists can duplicate, or I'm just making you up.
Eat that, Earl of Ockham.
Back to the point at hand. I am not a complete enough person, or even sane enough, for anybody to want to experience me for any prolonged period of time. This is, of course, assuming that I exist enough to be experienced for any prolonged period of time. So I am meant, at the end of all roads, to be alone. And I'm tired of wanting it to be otherwise.
So goodnight.