It’s funny, this business of writing blogs. Who do we write them for? Why do we do it? Isn’t it like praying to God, creating an illusion that out there is somebody who cares? What inner need is it we’re trying to meet? There are neighbours left, right, above, below, people we hardly meet, rarely speak to and yet they’re real and close by. Why don’t we just knock at their door and share our lives with them? Wouldn’t getting to know them meet our needs better?
I’m not good at this, writing blogs or tweets. I know, it’s down to lack of practice and maybe a lack of passion. I have never been good at anything that involves chit-chat, gossip or small-talk. It puts me at a disadvantage at work because it puts me out of the loop, isolates me and gives others room to make me look bad so they can progress at the expense of me.
It’s not for lack of trying. Every so often I forced myself to join my colleagues in their smoke breaks or for a drink after work, but damn it, I got so bored. I just can’t care enough about what so-and-so did, what soap they watched and who scored in the last football match.
I wish I could find somebody I could have meaningful discussions with that doesn’t bore neither of us. I guess that’s why I started to blog. Maybe out there is somebody who understands, somebody who cares about the same issues I care about.
All my life I felt that there is nobody out there with whom I can talk on the same level. I guess I’m just an arrogant bastard for whom nobody and nothing is good enough. They bore me and I bore them. Maybe at the end of the day what I think important isn’t important at all. Maybe I have an inflated sense of what really matters and the truth is that nothing matters at all. Maybe life is just random, purposeless and we’re much better off to yield to societies conditioning to follow trends in fashion, TV, music and celebrity cults. Maybe to feed our minds with mindless dumb stuff really makes us truly happy while worrying about consequences, environment, fairness is just a distraction from it.
At the end, if there is no purpose to life, if evolution, when the last sun is extinguished, eventually leads to total destruction of all life , does it really matter to concern oneself with how one should conduct one’s life? That random freak moment in all of history, so insignificant, so meaningless, a survival by sheer luck not to be eaten or destroyed long enough to reproduce and pass on mutated DNA to the next generation only to evaporate over time into the lifeless emptiness of space. Isn’t life just an illusion, consciousness simply a chemical product, like an AI that talks and thinks like us but yet has no awareness – like us – a delusion?