Man's Search for Meaning
At last I write! I have been prompted—nay, nagged—nay, encouraged—nay, forced—to do so by someone who would care to prompt or nag or encourage or force me to do so. Threats were made, recorded, ignored, in that order. I record everything; if Google loses its data, I'll have lost most of mine. I trust the services, though. I guess if everything failed, I'd just have to learn to live without the information. All this writing would be lost, and most people would be happier. What gives?
And I return to write because I require it again. My reason can be expanded into two branches; it is twofold (an excellent word). My reason for returning to writing relies on my reason for failing to do so since my previous post. I have but posted in a forum (521 times, but many posts are short) and conversed using more immediate electronic means (direct conversation through email and instant messenger services). I do very little writing now. But I digress; to stop it, I continue: I failed to write because either my thoughts were simple enough to dodge the need for the written word or my brain's capacity increased to simplify input. I suggest a combination, actually, because while I do recognize that I can now analyze some data on the fly, like I have a good front-end to filter and organize input, life must have been simpler because things were good. Now things turn sour and I must write. I should write when things are good, because writing only makes things better. Writing always makes things better. Writing has no potential for harm in this form.
That said, I have little more to say, although there is much to write. Analysis of the situation is pending; can I squeeze it out here? A friend from high school passed; he took a .45 caliber bullet to a vital spot, and it wasn't his fault. His only fault was knowing me, and people who know me are dropping like flies. He died in Blacksburg, Virginia. His name is high on the list. I don't know what to think about death.
For all the nouns I begin my boring sentences with, I must excuse my poor style by stating that it is irrelevant, because I've discovered the meaning of life. Frankl helped a little bit; understanding the universe and its mechanics and even the behavior of the strangest of creatures (read: women) helped more. It's all mathematical; everything, as Heinlein once wrote in an amazing book, can be described mathematically. Who needs English? Mathematics is no universal language, and it involves much expression through written language, but the ideals are mathematical, and alas, I still fail to express myself. All I want is to communicate one complex idea to somebody successfully, but I have no mastery for any language. I have demonstrated my ability to fail at everything; I have demonstrated my lack of ability to succeed at anything. These words are simple; they are strung together in a manner that communicates a rough idea of a simple concept to you, the reader of my ramblings. But death throws a wrench in the works, because it's a simple idea, but I can't explain the way my mind comprehends it. Not with language can I communicate.
I acquired a friend with benefits, and that's a much more effective means, let me tell you. We understood each other like you wouldn't believe. If I could combine that with language, I think somebody could understand me. But that would be a relationship, romance, albeit intellectual.
And that's also my greatest fear, that someone might understand me. I have something to protect, although I know not why I protect it. Why do I want to be known but fear being known? If somebody knew me, they could reject me, and that might hurt. It's happened before when someone was getting close to understanding me. The hurt wasn't the rejection, though; the hurt was the death, or rather the rejection in the death. And now maybe you're a little bit closer to understanding what death means to me; I'm outlining a vague image that perhaps, some day, I can describe better. If I had a good handle on the language, I could complete a novel or some nonfiction work of literature or some means of communicating this ideal. I would have to find a better way to do it, though, because even with any finite number of words, interpretations vary based on impression, and I can't deal with that, because either I would be misunderstood, which would hurt, or I would be understood, which I fear. I fear it because, if I am understood, the understanding friend will have access to everything, will be able to control me, will not do so because anyone who can understand me must love me, right? Wrong. You can be understood and hated; you're supposed to know your enemy, because if your enemy is known, your enemy may be defeated. Everyone can be defeated. What was that Hemmingway wrote about life killing the ones it failed to break? Well, I'm not broken, and I'm not dead yet, so life is taking its time, and I'm worthless, it seems. Not among the elite, my life has no immediate purpose, although I suppose everyone in a sea of people has a generic purpose of providing the great people with a crowd of idiots.
"So it goes." That's a dirty lie. Apathy will kill you; apathy killed Billy Pilgrim, who escaped all of his problems through a beautiful apathy. I wish I could do that. I wish I could relive my trauma to escape it, and I wouldn't care about anyone. It's the age-old struggle again, and I debate the usefulness of being close to people. And, like in most proofs, let's assume one case: let's assume that I should grow close to people. This presents us with a problem, or rather two problems. So it presents us with two problems: how do I know which of the six billion people who are technically available to me are compatible with me, won't hurt me, will love me, and how do I deal with failure, since no algorithm exists for choosing close friends? For a natural function can only be discovered through trial and error, and the solution to failure so far is only a preventative measure, which is a disproof of the current line of logic. So unless I just get lucky, and you, the reader, want to get close to me, the writer, and you promise without promising—it's in your nature—that my pain is not in your capacity.... I guess I'll just have to go with it, because I'm fucking tired of this damn loneliness. I need love.
The implications of dating are great, and while I have many love interests with very little potential, I have no chances with anyone to begin with. They say beggars can't be choosers, but that's a lie. I'm a beggar, but I'll choose, and I've already encountered one scenario and dealt with it by choosing. I chose not to engage in a relationship because I didn't appreciate the core of it. Now I have a friend with a few benefits, and I'm satisfied physically, but my mind yearns for someone other than this anonymous but limited audience for my thoughts. I want you to understand me, but I only want one of you to understand me at a time, and I want you to be female, and I want to communicate with more than just language, and now do you understand my loneliness? It's not sexual, it's not physical at all. It's intellectual. And it's more than I can bear.
And I return to write because I require it again. My reason can be expanded into two branches; it is twofold (an excellent word). My reason for returning to writing relies on my reason for failing to do so since my previous post. I have but posted in a forum (521 times, but many posts are short) and conversed using more immediate electronic means (direct conversation through email and instant messenger services). I do very little writing now. But I digress; to stop it, I continue: I failed to write because either my thoughts were simple enough to dodge the need for the written word or my brain's capacity increased to simplify input. I suggest a combination, actually, because while I do recognize that I can now analyze some data on the fly, like I have a good front-end to filter and organize input, life must have been simpler because things were good. Now things turn sour and I must write. I should write when things are good, because writing only makes things better. Writing always makes things better. Writing has no potential for harm in this form.
That said, I have little more to say, although there is much to write. Analysis of the situation is pending; can I squeeze it out here? A friend from high school passed; he took a .45 caliber bullet to a vital spot, and it wasn't his fault. His only fault was knowing me, and people who know me are dropping like flies. He died in Blacksburg, Virginia. His name is high on the list. I don't know what to think about death.
For all the nouns I begin my boring sentences with, I must excuse my poor style by stating that it is irrelevant, because I've discovered the meaning of life. Frankl helped a little bit; understanding the universe and its mechanics and even the behavior of the strangest of creatures (read: women) helped more. It's all mathematical; everything, as Heinlein once wrote in an amazing book, can be described mathematically. Who needs English? Mathematics is no universal language, and it involves much expression through written language, but the ideals are mathematical, and alas, I still fail to express myself. All I want is to communicate one complex idea to somebody successfully, but I have no mastery for any language. I have demonstrated my ability to fail at everything; I have demonstrated my lack of ability to succeed at anything. These words are simple; they are strung together in a manner that communicates a rough idea of a simple concept to you, the reader of my ramblings. But death throws a wrench in the works, because it's a simple idea, but I can't explain the way my mind comprehends it. Not with language can I communicate.
I acquired a friend with benefits, and that's a much more effective means, let me tell you. We understood each other like you wouldn't believe. If I could combine that with language, I think somebody could understand me. But that would be a relationship, romance, albeit intellectual.
And that's also my greatest fear, that someone might understand me. I have something to protect, although I know not why I protect it. Why do I want to be known but fear being known? If somebody knew me, they could reject me, and that might hurt. It's happened before when someone was getting close to understanding me. The hurt wasn't the rejection, though; the hurt was the death, or rather the rejection in the death. And now maybe you're a little bit closer to understanding what death means to me; I'm outlining a vague image that perhaps, some day, I can describe better. If I had a good handle on the language, I could complete a novel or some nonfiction work of literature or some means of communicating this ideal. I would have to find a better way to do it, though, because even with any finite number of words, interpretations vary based on impression, and I can't deal with that, because either I would be misunderstood, which would hurt, or I would be understood, which I fear. I fear it because, if I am understood, the understanding friend will have access to everything, will be able to control me, will not do so because anyone who can understand me must love me, right? Wrong. You can be understood and hated; you're supposed to know your enemy, because if your enemy is known, your enemy may be defeated. Everyone can be defeated. What was that Hemmingway wrote about life killing the ones it failed to break? Well, I'm not broken, and I'm not dead yet, so life is taking its time, and I'm worthless, it seems. Not among the elite, my life has no immediate purpose, although I suppose everyone in a sea of people has a generic purpose of providing the great people with a crowd of idiots.
"So it goes." That's a dirty lie. Apathy will kill you; apathy killed Billy Pilgrim, who escaped all of his problems through a beautiful apathy. I wish I could do that. I wish I could relive my trauma to escape it, and I wouldn't care about anyone. It's the age-old struggle again, and I debate the usefulness of being close to people. And, like in most proofs, let's assume one case: let's assume that I should grow close to people. This presents us with a problem, or rather two problems. So it presents us with two problems: how do I know which of the six billion people who are technically available to me are compatible with me, won't hurt me, will love me, and how do I deal with failure, since no algorithm exists for choosing close friends? For a natural function can only be discovered through trial and error, and the solution to failure so far is only a preventative measure, which is a disproof of the current line of logic. So unless I just get lucky, and you, the reader, want to get close to me, the writer, and you promise without promising—it's in your nature—that my pain is not in your capacity.... I guess I'll just have to go with it, because I'm fucking tired of this damn loneliness. I need love.
The implications of dating are great, and while I have many love interests with very little potential, I have no chances with anyone to begin with. They say beggars can't be choosers, but that's a lie. I'm a beggar, but I'll choose, and I've already encountered one scenario and dealt with it by choosing. I chose not to engage in a relationship because I didn't appreciate the core of it. Now I have a friend with a few benefits, and I'm satisfied physically, but my mind yearns for someone other than this anonymous but limited audience for my thoughts. I want you to understand me, but I only want one of you to understand me at a time, and I want you to be female, and I want to communicate with more than just language, and now do you understand my loneliness? It's not sexual, it's not physical at all. It's intellectual. And it's more than I can bear.
posted by Andrew Hills at 1:02 AM
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