Jason Silver

Thursday, November 17th, 2016

Some Thoughts

Life is a weird thing. What does it mean to be alive? There's some sort of action-ability applied to carbon and water and other molecules that animates them for a period of time. It's not very long, and it doesn't seem very important.

The strange thing about it all is that I'm aware of the fleeting nature of life, and I want to make something of it - to use the time I have for some important purpose. But what purpose is important? I could bring pleasure and happiness to the others who are experiencing this life thing, perhaps filling some felt need they have like hunger, friendship, or meaning. But if their life is equally transient and meaningless, then is there any point in doing these things for them?

Periodically I get a sense that there's something bigger than myself involved in this process, but I can't be sure if that's delusional or desperate thinking; a way of pacifying myself on this purposeless existence.

I've been busying myself with such things for 47, nearly 48 years. When I consider the immensity of time in which I've been preoccupied with non-imminent-end thought, I feel a little embarrassed. Where have I been these 40 plus years? I guess I can't count the first 20, as I was in someone else's care, or finding my first unaided steps. But the last 28 years have been all mine, and they seem quite meaningless.

I didn't know it at the time, though, and that brings up a really interesting question: should we endeavour to remain ignorant? In other words, was I happier about the meaning of life, when I didn't give it much thought? I think so.

If I come to conclude that there is inherent meaning in life, then I suppose there has to be good in questioning the meaning, and therefore start to move toward more purposeful existence. But if there is no inherent meaning in life, then stopping to consider if there is, will elucidate the haunting emptiness of it all, and can make what should probably be a pleasurable time here on earth end up as difficult and depressing.

And that word has come up again: pleasure. Since life is so short, why do we spend any time doing things which are not pleasurable? I don't mean we shouldn't work, as work is a kind of pleasure. I don't mean we shouldn't cry, because crying itself is even a kind of pleasure in appreciation of whatever you're mourning. But why should we preoccupy ourselves with pain? Stress? Anger? Jealousy?

This sounds suspiciously like the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes.