The point to life and other rambles.

Whenever I put my pen to paper about this, I hate myself a little. I stop writing halfway because I sound exactly like the pretentious people I hate. And while I swear often in real life, I have always tried to avoid it in my writing, I find it somehow crass. That said, there is only one word to describe how I feel about myself whenever I put my pen to paper about this and that is, quite frankly, a douche.

Today, however, I feel, more than ever – I feel alone and frustrated. Not from my loneliness or my lack of friendships, but because of this weight I carry on my shoulders. My oversized head filled with it’s oversized brain.

I’ve always thought of myself as smart. Not the smartest. I am not modest and nor am I a liar. I call spades spades. I have suffered due to my ‘over-frankness’. I think it is due to my OCD because as a kid I taught my elder brother to lie. I was the worst. And now, the only time I can bring myself to lie is when the consequences of the truth are too heavy to bear. I’m rambling.

I’ve always thought of myself as smart. Capable of thinking and processing a little faster, a little better than the others. At the same time, I’ve never thought of others as stupid. I’ve always been astounded by their thoughts and limitations. In examinations, when you have two things to learn by heart and the vomit out onto the paper, how can people, who study ten times more than I do, not do it efficiently? It’s something that has baffled me, always. Things like putting on gloves before you dye your hair. Not venturing into dark, uninhabited places alone. Not driving after drinking. Using protection while having sex. These are fundamental, basic things a person should know! And how, I just. I just can’t process this. Just how? How?

God made us equal. Sort of. Those who lack in one sphere make up in another. I’m talented so I have a very slow metabolism and am terrible at sports. Extremely pretty people are often dumb (not stereotyping, I just feel like they’ve never needed to be witty and interesting so they’ve never tried. It’s as simple as nature vs. nurture). But everyone, everyone has a similar brain. We are nearly equal in this aspect. It’s the same size. Same number of cells. Similar DNA in our neurons. How can some people just not use theirs?

It upsets me. I feel like people don’t even try. They hear but don’t listen. Sometimes they don’t even hear. Their brain is running on ‘minimum energy’. They don’t think because while they’ve been taught to question, they never really question do they? They just question what they think should be questioned. Spoonfed baboons. They question the wrong things. Everyone my age wants to ‘question the system’. They throw a little rebellion about and pretend to feel ‘oppressed’. No one thinks about it from the other side. Is anarchy that appealing?

Why is everyone so invested in self-gratification? ‘I want it all and I want it now’ to quote Queen, but that’s not what Queen meant (they’re my favourite band). YOLO is the stupidest thing to come out of the internet. Ever. When will people realise that ‘you only live once’ should mean you make something of your life instead of throwing it away on frivolous things that we won’t even remember later?

I have spent the last year or so questioning my existence. Why do I exist? Where is my place in this ginormous, cosmic machine? We’re all cogs, just turning. Is there a point? Who will answer these questions? Who can answer them? I can’t. I’ve tried and I honestly just can’t. Who am I after all? I want there to be a point to my life. I don’t want this existence, these emotions, this pain, even the joy to mean nothing. If you look at the biggest picture of them all – this universe will end one day. The Earth may disappear even before that. When I die, even if I leave something behind, will it be remembered four or five generations from now? Probably not. And if the word is destroyed, what then? When I think of every single person’s existence and the ultimate destruction of the universe, I frankly see no point. I don’t believe in heaven. I don’t know what I believe in, but it isn’t fluffy white clouds. Maybe we are transported to a parallel dimension? I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know. I sometimes wish I was immortal just so that I could learn everything. Math, science, psychology, art, music – just everything. I wish I could read every book ever written. Listen to every song. Watch every movie, every TV series, every anime. That’s just a dream. There are so many things I don’t know.

What I do know is this – I cannot believe in a pointless existence. What justification do I have for living my life then? There has to be some meaning. I don’t know what it is, but there is something. There has to be. And I must contribute somehow.

And when I see my peers, some of my elders, the younger generations that live with sheer apathy. It upsets me. It shatters my heart. No, it is a stab in my heart every time and every single inane thing to come from their mouths is a twist of the knife. Can they not understand? Do they not search for meaning? I feel like my life, my existence is devalued by such things.

How can you not care?

Society as such is forcing us to be dumber versions of ourselves. We don’t think. We play, quite frankly, idiotic games like ‘Flappy Bird’ and ‘Temple Run’. We spend hours in the gym but don’t spend ten minutes reading a book. We are so focused on external appearances. We’re utterly selfish, we don’t care about other people’s feelings. Manners and courtesy are a thing of the past.

I have heard people say, silly, stupid, stupid things like ‘Why should I care about global warming? I’ll be dead before then.’ Or things about hunger. About war. People who see walls between themselves and others. Religious walls. Parochial walls. The walls of nationality, looks, dress size, hair colour. Silly, stupid things.

I said I’ve never called anyone stupid, and for a long time I refused to. I just thought of them as lazy. Too lazy to employ this brilliant, brilliant mind we have been blessed with. But I can’t anymore. My definition of stupidity has changed. It’s not about academics or exams, it’s not about awards and prizes. It’s just about you, and the thoughts you think, the feelings you feel, how you make other people feel. When our lives end, what will be left of us? Even if it’s for a few months, I’d like there to be something of me after it all ends.

I feel this weight on my brain when people repeat redundant things, silly things and waste time. When people listen to bleeps and bloops and pretend it’s music. When the pretentious, artsy fartsy types take things to another level of dumbness – one that errs on the other side of the line called sense. The ‘erudite’.

I don’t understand them. I don’t think I ever will. They make me want to cry for the waste. All this time, all this energy. All that wonderful genetic machinery, God’s blessing, going to waste. More than anything, they make me feel pointless.

I sound terrible. Conceited. Maybe I am. sometimes I wonder if life would’ve been different if I’d been born stupid. I would’ve been happier, I am sure. But I wouldn’t give up this existence for anything. Because there’s a meaning to all this.

My point is this – you have a wonderful brain. No one is dumb. Use your brain. Think. Reason. Process. Don’t make our existence pointless. You don’t have to leave something behind for your existence to be meaningful. You just need to not make it pointless. We’re tissues. Blank, white canvases for a scatter brained artist to haphazardly jot down the richest idea. The same tissue that could be used to wipe away dirt. What would you choose to be? Even if everything ends one day, and everything is destroyed. What would you want?

I leave you with a wonderful quote from ‘Honey and Clover’ by Chica Umino. Please look up this manga/anime. It has some of the most beautiful sentiments I have ever felt expressed. At least look up some of the quotes. Even Hiromu Arakawa has some lovely quotes.

This is a little emotional, but I feel this sentiment applies to every possible emotion, not just love. Every action of our lives. I want to feel like this about my actions when I think of them later. 

‘I’d been wondering whether there is a meaning to a failed love… Is something that disappeared the same as something that never existed? But now I now there is—There was a meaning right here.. Because despite the heartbreak, I’m still glad that I fell in love with you.’

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Soldiering on – explained.

The poem, ‘Soldiering On’ (found at https://kazenomachihe.wordpress.com/2013/12/10/soldiering-on/) is an allegorical representation of my OCD.

I don’t much about the army, much less the American army, so please forgive any information that is inaccurate.

I spoke to this person today who told me about how he had been hospitalised due to his OCD. Forced to live in a psychiatric ward, not even allowed to meet his family. And he looked at me and asked me what my symptoms were and he just brushed them off and said I’d be fine.

It is very difficult for someone like me, someone who considers themselves extremely intelligent and rational, someone who approaches problems analytically and solves them in the optimal way. It is very difficult for someone like me to imagine a world where I would be fine simply because no matter how many angles I try to approach my OCD in, I always hit a dead end. An immovable wall that prevents me from going further.

Over the last several years, the last four in particular, it has slowly chipped away at every ounce of happiness, every shred of confidence in me. I have gone from a social butterfly to the kind of person that shies away from human company – a kind of metaphorical cockroach, hiding in the dark crevices of society. I simply cannot meet people and not imagine where their hands have been in the last five minutes. How many toilet doors, flushes, seats they have touched. How many taps they have opened with their own fingers. But I digress. Slightly.

So I thought to myself, as he said all those things, as I asked him about treatment plans because I am someone, somewhere far away from where such things are easily accessible. The one psychiatrist I did go to merely prescribed me some drugs and sent me away; pills that I stopped taking when the pill box became dirty (the irony). I thought to myself that he sounded like one of those war veterans we see on TV shows and films, who talks of the countless terrors he has survived and I felt like a novice. A soldier who had served for barely a year. Someone who knew nothing about anything and who was making mountains out of molehills.

And then I thought of my family, and how should I ever reach a stage wherein I’d have to be hospitalised away from them, my mother would break, my brother be more lost than he was right now.

We have nothing left but each other.

And I wanted, more than anything, not to ever reach that stage. That is what makes it so important for me to get treatment, to find a way to manage things better. So that when a guest comes to my house I don’t need to have heart palpitations when I realise that he is the type who doesn’t wash his hands after flushing a toilet.

I’m digressing again. Slightly.Basically soldiering on is an allegorical representation of my OCD. The army is OCD. The veteran is the boy I spoke to who had been hospitalised. Everything else, well the meanings should be clear to you.

A bit of an explanation…

You might be wondering why I have decided to start a blog if I feel I have nothing new to say. It is mostly to convey the ‘old’ feelings in my heart. Get them out there. There has to be a point to such wretchedness and it might as well be creativity.
I hope that writing will have a therapeutic effect on me. That I will no longer be on my lowest ebb if I do this.
If not, well, at least I’ll get some decent writing out of this experiment.