I could sit in a corner and watch life fly by. Although the word boring comes to mind, if it weren’t for my so called hormone based need to interact or do stuff or anything, it wouldn’t make a lot of difference anyway. What can you do these days that people wouldn’t expect you to? Get an education, get a job, find a girlfriend, get married, Get. A. Life. Right? Am I really setting these goals for myself, or does someone else or something do that for me? Who decided on that simple fact that you have to live your life within the earlier mentioned pattern? Let’s face it, if you don’t get that precious education, you won’t get that so dearly desired job. If we don’t get that job, we feel sad… Why? Propably because we feel like we’re underachieving, like we’re not living up to what we could be. Humanity’s unflinching desire to excell and be better than anyone or anything that ever lived. Who set the bar on that one anyway? When am I underachieving, when am I better? Does getting that job mean we get to be better? Does it define our lives? Sure it gets me going on a commercial basis. The other one, the girlfriend part, we feel so alone without someone affirming that they love us just for who we are. To make us feel like we are at least someone’s life saving gift. The desire to mean anything to anyone. What if the word love was never invented? Would we be equally happy to hear that someone hated us? Just so we can go to sleep at night, knowing that we meant something?
I guess humanity just drove the unicycle of destiny towards these patterns. Agreed, we get to take a turn left or right from the main road, but we always end up in the same line. Everything we do, has to be socially acceptable. If we don’t do what we’re supposed to do, we would fit in, but not quite the same as if would fit in the other way around. We’re given this margin in which we can differ from whatever people expect from us to do, but when the line between that margin and “the socially accepted” fades, we end up in approval noman’s land.
When you think about it, by defining what we’re supposed to be, we’ve also defined everything we’re not supposed to be. This goes the same for being unique. When are we called special? Why are we special? We are unique or special, because other people say we are. We are not special, we are not unique. We do or are things that astonish other people so greatly, they need to evolve their own world around it, in the end only to make themselves believe they can be (named) special (by the people around them). Its like throwing a rock in pond, the whole concentric circles thing. One specialty defines the next, until what we thought was unique, becomes normal.
So why not sit in a corner and watch life fly by? Makes sense to me. If everything I do is only worth doing when its named worth something by someone else, what does that make of my own actions? My actions are no longer self-defined, they are focussed on what they can be to someone else. Altruïsm anyone? Which, I can’t agree with, can be benificial to the world or greater good no doubt, but doesn’t that make us only one tiny little part of a machine? We are so goddamn depending on everyone or everything around us. We are so depending on our enviremont that our actions are no longer a reflection or ourselves, but a reflection of our enviremont’s expectations towards ourselves. We’ve come to the point that even the enviremont has made sure that deviating from these expectations has become an expectation on its own. We no longer get to deviate, because deviation has been turned into an expectation.
I guess the conclusion is that we’ve created the numbness of our own existence, we’ve made it so that the point of life is life itself. Life as being put under the enviromental weight of expectations we are supposed to live up to. Should we commit suicide then? Behold, this is not a speech on behalf of suicide or global genocide, because that’s just another form of deviation. And believe it or not, it’s accepted.
The point is, there propably is no answer to this dilemma. I just confronted myself with the fact that writing this was propably equally expected as anything else, and that whatever I do next will be as meaningfull or meaningless as throwing rocks in a pond.
