Too Many Exits
It occurred to me recently that I cannot possibly imagine what heaven would be like. But I can easily imagine hell.
It seems easier to point out the things that make you miserable than the things that make you happy. And bear in mind, assuming consciousness continues after life functions cease, your mind will continue to develop. Meaning that everything you used to love will eventually bore or annoy you.
Change is the only constant in the universe.
And with your mind changing so often I don't know how anyone can say what will please them for all eternity.
But torment you for all eternity, that I can imagine.
For me hell is the opposite of Sartre's idea of hell, that hell is other people. For me it would be the denial of people. To view others interacting in amazing, awesome ways and never being able to participate. To get my ideas out there. To connect.
That and a constant headache as I wander a constant 100+ degree temperatures (with raging humidity) and an eternal speaker blaring Hawthorne Heights.
More importantly, the inability to connect to people.
I'm one of those people who can only define themselves by their relationships to other people.
With that in mind I've spent the last few weeks looking at my friends and colleagues and fellow country (wo)men and finding that no matter how well I may get along with a person, there is no one group of people to whom I belong with incredible ease.
It's a two way streak. On the non me side, I just don't have the personality that quite smoothly fits in with anything.
On the me side, every little social clique is so riddled with flaws of any fashion that I don't want to delve into any of it.
What winds up happening is that I feel alienated from my own generation. I can't relate to it.
I may love you, random reader, but you're a dumb turd.
You all are.
As am I.
For the sake of not writing anything more epically long than what I already have, I'm leaving this incomplete and brief. I could write a scathing review of my whole generation but I'd have to literally write a novel about it. And not the one I'm writing now. In the mean time, here's me whining with maybe a shadow of philosophy pudding on the top.
It seems easier to point out the things that make you miserable than the things that make you happy. And bear in mind, assuming consciousness continues after life functions cease, your mind will continue to develop. Meaning that everything you used to love will eventually bore or annoy you.
Change is the only constant in the universe.
And with your mind changing so often I don't know how anyone can say what will please them for all eternity.
But torment you for all eternity, that I can imagine.
For me hell is the opposite of Sartre's idea of hell, that hell is other people. For me it would be the denial of people. To view others interacting in amazing, awesome ways and never being able to participate. To get my ideas out there. To connect.
That and a constant headache as I wander a constant 100+ degree temperatures (with raging humidity) and an eternal speaker blaring Hawthorne Heights.
More importantly, the inability to connect to people.
I'm one of those people who can only define themselves by their relationships to other people.
With that in mind I've spent the last few weeks looking at my friends and colleagues and fellow country (wo)men and finding that no matter how well I may get along with a person, there is no one group of people to whom I belong with incredible ease.
It's a two way streak. On the non me side, I just don't have the personality that quite smoothly fits in with anything.
On the me side, every little social clique is so riddled with flaws of any fashion that I don't want to delve into any of it.
What winds up happening is that I feel alienated from my own generation. I can't relate to it.
I may love you, random reader, but you're a dumb turd.
You all are.
As am I.
For the sake of not writing anything more epically long than what I already have, I'm leaving this incomplete and brief. I could write a scathing review of my whole generation but I'd have to literally write a novel about it. And not the one I'm writing now. In the mean time, here's me whining with maybe a shadow of philosophy pudding on the top.