The manifestation of man stems from his purpose, which lies in nothing more than acquiring sources of energy and reproducing. If viewed from this angle, you would understand why it is undeniable that humans are animals as well. If you were to discount all his mundane, pointless and stupid activities, what would be left in him that keeps him alive, is nothing more than a constant state of physiological processes as long as his body is functioning normally.
Life according to Sartre is a useless and meaningless passion.
Life according to Tolstoy is a cruel joke.
Life according to the Buddha is suffering, ill, and unsatisfactory.
Life according to me is a futile exercise where the end result does not justify any effort on our part and is nothing more than a short and insignificant moment between eternity or forever, and nothing.
And yet we continue to live our lives, for reasons which may include:
Being a slave to our instincts and desires or in other words resting on ignorance,
Realizing that killing ourselves is just not the right thing to do,
Lacking the strength to suicide,
Pretending or disillusioning ourselves rather falsely that life holds a meaning other than reproduction and acquiring energy sources for our bodies in order to maximize our genetic currency,
Or perhaps because we realize that life is cruel and undignified and hence we work towards reducing these two qualities of cruelty and indignity, so as to make life as pleasant and dignified as possible during our insignificant and rebellious stay here on Earth outside of Nirvana.
We are nothing more than an insignificant mistake of eternity which constantly itches to restore its rightful state of neutrality. Like an ill-adjusted pendulum that constantly wants to stop, no matter how far or how many times you try and pull it back. Between the two sides of infinity we live out our futile, mundane and pointless moment without reason, 20, 000 or 30, 000 days, at best, before forever restores status quo. This absurdly ridiculous, perky and rebellious thing called life is knocked down so hard into its rightful place by eternity, that it dies. Some of our lives are beautiful for a while. Usually though, life is a sick and cruel joke, ridden with suffering, misery, fear and terror to those less lucky. We live the best we can, doing what our instincts ask us to, and then some. What matters is that now we are here. The question is how comfortable, pleasant and dignified we can make our stay, so as to reduce the sheer, incredulous ridicule and sneer of forever, and to restore some dignity to this horrible joke that has been played on us.
An insignificant planet, with life, and everyone can see the future — no more of it. In the end, they did not live happily ever after; It would be better if we could just manage to live happily while we do.
Insignificant, all of us. Insignificant, a tiny infinitesimal duration between forever and nothing. This is all we are.
There is no sixth sense, alpha or beta waves, experienced by Yogis, etc, that’s all just a bunch of unproved razzmatazz. It’s also, in my, rather humble, opinion — bullshit. There is no force that drives cells on other than their energy. There is nothing spectacular, mysterious, or enchanting about life in any way. Being enthusiastically romantic about it is certainly no crime, it’s just not very real and slightly facetious.
I view us as advanced apes with the additional capabilities of verbalized communication, tool-making and evolutionary intelligence taken to so high a degree that very often it proves detrimental to the survival of this species. Hierarchy in it is defined in a more complex way, usually through monetary terms, and the mindless pursuit of money is, for lack of better words, one of the downfalls of this species.
I am the port that harbors my cells. A big bag of replicating cells that chooses to reproduce itself. This is all I am. And I’m sorry to say this but after I die, the only other life-forms I’ll morph into are those maggots that creep out of my corpse, and that bit of extra grass on the top of my grave.
This is why I maintain that most of the people who want to live are crazy and that most of those who wish to suicide, or who are otherwise looked upon as crazy, are completely sane. This is not true in my opinion all the time, but it is so for a majority of that time. I completely understand those who suffer from depression, who have lost their will, their energy or motivation to live, who actively seek death, and who have become demented. I don’t empathize with them, because I don’t even have to put myself in their shoes to feel the way they do. Rather I understand them very well, as people who may have come to the same conclusion that I have.
So I’m destined to die, but I should try to reproduce and survive while I’m alive. A useless test of our reproductive and survival abilities. Where it doesn’t even matter whether we get an A+ or an F.
We are nothing more than the propagating carriers of the love virus.