So, in typical confounding fashion, to be neither understood nor explained, I’ve re-attached the full text of my book “Iron, Not Wood” below at the end of this blog; my final useless contribution to society. (Is that irony or sarcasm?) I suppose if I spent so much time writing it, it might as well be heard. But truth is, I don’t know what “up” is, and what “down” is anymore. The words I wrote, seemingly an eternity ago, ring hollow as a politician’s apology nowadays. Love seems like nothing more than 4 random letters accidentally comingling in an arbitrary way, bonded by emotion, for barely a brief moment, only to inevitably dissolve in the acidic senselessness of life. But I can’t be bitter, for it was my own decisions that are to blame for all of it. Ultimately, the demise of love, of all my relationships, was purely due to the corrosive acts and decisions of nobody else, but myself.
If I had my life all over again, I wouldn’t have wasted my time with the book. I wouldn’t have just sailed off into the sunset, alone, and completely unplugged from the world. Which is what I’m doing now, I suppose.
I’m exhausted from life; perplexed by its symmetry of senselessness; confused by its complex labyrinth of illogic and reason; psychotic from the tiny splinter wedged deep within our consciousness, impossible to extract, unable to be pearled by our irritated “neuronic” muscle; morose from the reflection of life. The heaviness of my eyelids lack the will to be held up further by my facial muscles, weary from depletion of my salty glands.
If a perfect life was still not enough, what ever will be? If time and time again, opportunity for happiness is crushed by the anvil of self-destruction, wielded so carelessly, yet so pointedly, so precisely, how can I ever escape my own destruction?
My persistent light hollow smile, that once flawlessly concealed the heaviness of every mood, convincing even myself in its authenticity, is now filled with a dense substance, a dark matter, mysterious, vaguely quantifiable, overcome by the gravity of life, and the decomposition of the once indestructible facade of hope.
Overall, I don’t have any god-damn idea what the purpose of life is. None. Not a damn clue, actually. (Yes, God still exists and will regardless of what I think; whatever “God’ is.) And without purpose – not just a reason – life is meaningless; everything we do. Children and family provide a reason. A job and career provides a reason. None of it provides a purpose. Religion merely provides the illusion of purpose: our sole purpose cannot be to glorify God; what kind of a sick ego maniac entity creates free-will for self-glorification alone? Or love-me or suffer the threat of eternal damnation – how absurd of a God must that be? Send me to hell if the choice is worship that or hell.
While many – or most – are content to meander from moment to moment, purely living in a struggle for survival – like a jungle creature – to breathe another day, to pursue adding greater comfort and pleasure to justify our existence, I am not. This isn’t enough. How can it be?
This runs counter to everything I wrote in my book. Perhaps mortality staring us down changes our view of things. I was in a different and a happier place when I wrote the book, even despite knowing mortality was knocking. It turned out it wasn’t knocking as soon as I had thought.
I must be the world’s biggest fraud. In a world full of frauds. In a world built on illusion. In a transient state of being that seems to have no objective nor purpose; other than to expose the futility of our never-ending suffering, as Buddha once opined – where everything we love is certain to be lost, where everything we build is certain to be razed, where every bit of “success” we enjoy seems to come at the expense of another, where death is a certainty each of us must embrace; so why does it even matter when it happens?
I am the king of frauds. Pretending to be something, anything, other than truth.
How can someone be blessed and given so much? And yet, appreciate and realize so little? And repeatedly, intentionally, so effectively, screw up every good thing in my life?
I always knew, I could never be in a loving relationship, because I would surely end up causing more pain and suffering to those that loved me ever deserved. So, invariably, when someone fell in love with me, I was afflicted with massive internal conflict: hoping in an eternal love, while understanding, painfully realizing, that I needed to end it. And to every amazing relationship in my life, I ended all of them, eventually. Basically walked away from love, happiness. Because I knew, years later, when it mattered more, with children and family, my mental instability would only cause more pain and suffering. So in that respect, yes, I’m crazy, a bit psychotic, a masochist; unable to accept, appreciate, an enduring love, despite craving it more than life itself.
Nothing was ever enough to keep me happy. Nothing. No matter how amazing or perfect it was.
This is the definition of crazy, to which I am a lifelong member.
But all of my actions were based on what I thought were noble and selfless intentions, intended to protect the ones I loved – so I thought. Instead, I sabotaged or ended each amd every relationship when we got near the point of having children. I would often vacillate whether I wanted children, or paralyzed by the fear of being a terrible father, perhaps abandoning my own kids when things got tough, like my parents had done, perhaps, when they left me as a child. And every heartbreak, I wore heavy on my sleeve – never forgetting, constantly remembering, a solemn sadness stained on my heart; still never forgiving myself.
So, there’s the real reason why a perfect life ends. We become victims of our own mental prison, an inescapable wall or bars constructed from our plausible future scenarios, where we convince ourselves of the inevitable outcome, however flawed or irrational the conclusion, determined to avoid that scenario at all cost, to “save” those future loved ones the pain and agony of your pending decisions, which feel as heavy and pre-destined as a thousand ton freight train’s path riding an immovable rail – your own mental circuitry.
So, that is my long-winded apology to all of those I have hurt in this life. The list is so long, where should I begin or end? I genuinely did love you, but I feared my own shortcomings more.
And so, this truly is my final blog. Into the abyss I sail, neither confident in its course, nor giving a damn. This life has been my never-ending hell, and what comes, if it shall come, can only be less.
I am finally free to let my soul fly. Unburdened. Un-heavy. Unconcerned what anybody else truly thinks of me. Today is the greatest day of my life.
It’s interesting and insightful to realize the progression of life. I spent most of my life thinking I was better than everyone else. As I grew older, I realized, I wasn’t any better, just different, blessed with different talents and abilities than others. And then in the past handful of years, I’ve come to realize that, in fact, that I’m far worse than everyone else; that everybody was better than me, because nobody can be this idiotic and stupid as I. Maybe this natural progression of life, the process of learning and understanding humility is our true purpose in this world, in this seemingly perplexing life. And perhaps, the entire structure of life, the aging and loss of beauty, health, loves, and ultimately, life, is merely to teach us the unteachable truth of humility. Perhaps humility is the one mandatory ingredient for eternal life. Or perhaps, none of it means anything at all.
For what it’s worth: