I wonder about the need for change.
As a state of existence, it might be supposed that there’s merely an expression of our circumstances. That is, there’s no choice. That which is completely stagnant is conceived of as dead, we’re alive, and therefore as long as we’d like to remain so, whatever constitutes us has to change.
The battle is between incidental and purposeful. It might be a form of naivety or weak imagination to think you can have a purpose, but nonetheless here I’ll go.
I started writing because of a need to change how I was thinking. I was deeply suffering the conclusions I was drawing about “love,” “god,” and “friendship.” The stress had nowhere to go. Even with people to talk to, if you’re a better writer than you are speaker, you can walk away even more frustrated after a discussion than if you had kept it to yourself.
I want to focus on the necessity of change. When something will either destroy you or be tamed. I often seem to adopt changes that I think need to be imposed at large that people don’t conceive of for themselves. In doing so, I’m feeling the compulsion to change into what I’ve generally characterized as “no longer giving a fuck.”
I consider this a problem. Much as if you feel like you’re drowning you should surface and take a breath of air. I consider losing my capacity to care as letting the first stream of water into my lungs. I want people to be angry that I wouldn’t care. I want to be blamed. I want to be held accountable for my perception and how I’ve spent my time. I remain unconvinced by selfish solipsism.
Let’s run with something easy, like climate change. People were ringing bells about waste, overconsumption, pollution, etc. at the start of industrial ages, but the money won. Now, we’re in the middle of the ever-growing dramatic consequences, and not only do people still deny those consequences, but you’ll find the biggest push for things changing has nothing to do with respect or knowledge about the planet, but because companies who caused the problems forecast smaller profits. As the money wins again, the “need” becomes a reflection of greed.
Most social goods seem to find themselves corrupted because genuinely life affirming needs are subverted. Occupy wants to change capitalism for crippling the world? Occupy isn’t paying the police. You can’t eat healthy, or go to the doctor, or learn without a middleman. You can’t argue on behalf of better philosophy or moral obligation. There is no memory of what those look like. There is no expectation or feeling that they are deserved. Ideals rest on a precarious ledge. When they fall to one side they’re abolished or forgotten, fall to the other, subverted.
Why fight? What is a “revolutionary” mindset? When you’ll talk yourself into a stupor? When you’ll alienate the powers that be until you’re so obscure not even rats will meet you in a basement? Why try? Are you not ultimately attempting to fix or change something so remarkably corrupt, as the human animal seems to be, that you’re advocating even beyond that which constitutes you? Are you not arguing for your own death?
And I suppose I am. I wish my worst fear was accidents. Acts of god not carried out by his terrifying and ignorant zealots. I wish I never needed another violent impulse. I wish for even a brief period of what “common sense” used to signify, but could apply to culture at large instead of squabbling at the level of whether women are capable of opening their own doors.
I almost want to say I’m scared. But I don’t really feel anything but angry or more often nothing. I don’t have to have kids who will suffer the same intellectual indignity. I don’t need to goad myself into caring more by having them either. I can’t even promise I’d like my kids given how little I can stand engaging with “anyone” in general barring anomalous or drunk situations. I wouldn’t feel like it was up to them to fix things. I’d keep blaming me and my idiot cohort as well as the “greatest generation” and their irresponsible offspring.
I’m no longer terribly sure of what my signals to change are asking of me. Should I double down on being a hermit? Should I pick up a loudspeaker and make a new home of the street? Should I take it easy and just go on vacation and try to enjoy life because, after all, it’s short, and such a precious thing to waste.
It’s just so popular to focus on yourself. Because I don’t hate who I am I can’t get on board? I’m not trying to run from anything. I’m not trying to get off some medication, don’t have 50 pounds to lose, don’t hate my job, don’t hate my girlfriend, aren’t in debt, what else? What keeps people so engaged in their lives? What makes life so selfishly special in a way that I can’t access? I’m reminded of watching my friend pray and thinking there was a magical world of experience or divine wisdom happening behind his eyelids and on his knees that was simply beyond me sitting there watching him. The answer then, as I’m sure it is again, ignorance.
And if I’d want people blaming me for acting ignorantly, it never bothers me to blame you. So if I stop caring? Should I set a suicidal example? Obviously not, you should know, I really like me. Am I merely telling myself that I haven’t learned enough? You can learn something new every day and I can’t think of one that goes by where I don’t read at least an essay. Maybe I just need lessons in style, tolerance, or patience. History informs, but it doesn’t reassure and it certainly only proves what we already know.
A man just asked me to move to the side of the table so he can continue working on his puzzle. Fitting.
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