Without Purpose
What was once deemed worthwhile, noble even, now feels pointless. Not the change your meds kind of emptiness, but rather the kind that feels like an epiphany.
What does it really mean to matter? What was the impulse that drove me forward, like a slave at the oars? The scars on my back are my own creation, and the ship was never moving.
I dedicated a large part of my life to philosophy, theology, history, and literature. Even when my interest waxed and waned with the natural vicissitudes of life, I treated intellectual pursuits as an almost sacred duty. But why?
Philosophy, as I’ve said before, is masturbatory. It does little more than feed the ego. Theology is a fool’s errand, an embarrassing waste of life and an insult to reason. History is written by the victors and might as well be read as speculative fiction. Literature and poetry (the icing on top) are diversions.
The question before me now is what am I going to do about it? I could treat it all like a child who has outgrown his toys, sweep it under the bed and forget. Or I could reframe, change tack, adopt a new perspective. I’m free to do that. I define reality, after all. As Trent said, There is no you, there is only me.
And in writing this, I think I’ve landed somewhere in the vicinity of an answer: l’art pour l’art.
One need not seek extrinsic value. Hell, we can abandon the idea of value altogether. No didactic purpose is necessary. It’s enough to just do something for its own sake, in the moment the interest arises.
And in practice? That would also mean not seeking the affirmation of others. Blasphemy, these days. No look at me social media bullshit, no sharing your accomplishments.
To just exist quietly, to embrace the activity of the moment, and then to let it go when it passes. I think that might be it.