Consciousness And Purposelessness
I am rather unsure as to what is supposed to come next. My entire life feels like one big non sequitur. You're in this existence where the people in it constantly remind you that you mean something, you do something, you have a place, you are an integral cog in this tedious wheel we call a consciousness. Except consciousness isn't real. So I am to conclude I am an integral part of an illusion. Am I the smoke, or the mirrors? Or do I get to choose? How exciting.
I am completely out of control, not in the colloquial sense that I'm robbing liquor stores or am guilty of arson. I am, quite literally, out of control. I control nothing of my own life, except perhaps its very existence. Maybe that's why scholarly arguments advocating my right to toil with it in the way I see fit make sense to me; at least it's some semblance of control in the cubicle of my so-called consciousness. Others have their protests, of course, bringing up all those aforementioned reasons it should be let be [you mean something, et c.]. But what do I mean? What do I do? What place do I have? What does my cog accomplish, and as such, what would not be accomplished in its absence?
I am not chased, no pun intended. I have never been chased. If I disappeared tomorrow, other than the emotional reactions of those accustomed to my presence, the world would continue as if nothing had happened. Not even a blip would describe my existence. I have accomplished nothing.
Now many people like to retort with responses like "lots of people can say that about themselves." Okay, so say it. I'm not stopping you. You have your own journey. If you are inviting me to try to prove you wrong, I will gladly take a look at your place on this earth and evaluate if you're being true to yourself, or you're just emotionally unstable at the moment.
I have spent a great amount of time actually trying to objectively evaluate my worth, even when not depressed [which for full disclosure, I very much am right now]. The only major difference is that when not depressed, I believe I can eventually make up for my lack of worth in some way. What that in fact means, of course, is that I still agree with the basic tenant of my point; purposelessness. No one relies on my existence. Oh how I would love that. Some people like to tell me that they do and get mad at me for suggesting it, except then they just punish me by continuing to live without me just fine, staying away from me, telling me I am making everything worse, thus almost proving my original point.
I am being a little selfish by expecting the world to act in accordance with the way I do. All of us do it to some extent at some times, some more than others. But that is the rat of consciousness; it is our reality. It makes sense to us. And I'm not sure it's a force I can compete with anymore. My time is spent almost entirely questioning everything. In a masquerade of conspiracy theory, I insist I must question because everyone lies and schemes and dissembles. Yet most remind me that I should just accept much of what people say about themselves and their intentions and actions. One of my best friends would always just say "okay" when someone boldly lied to her about their feelings because her reasoning was "if they aren't going to be honest with me about it, then I won't sweat over caring." It's a lovely thought, except my overworking brain doesn't offer me such a respite from reality, or rather, my "reality" à la my consciousness.
All life is a consciousness comprised of fun house mirrors. Oh how I dread foraging through a bloody mass of broken glass for a way out.