Why does it seem that mot humans kill themselves to feel alive?
We smoke, we drink, we abuse ourselves. We do many other, much more subtle things, that lead to our physical, mental and emotional discomfort. Why?
I find myself constantly conflicted not so much about death, but about existence. This constant existential mantra "why am I here? Why am I here? WHY am I here?" Witnessing the pain and misfortune of others serves as a brief wake-up call, but it's fleeting. After reading about a murder or a car accident, it takes only moments to become completely absorbed in my own love-hate world of what seems to be a mediocre existence. I spend money, is my existence justified in that I support an imaginary economy? If I type many words into a computer and (some day) make fancy reports that I project on to a wall with many statistics, have I done something? Where does one find the sensation of being alive? If I feel alienated from my own family, but smile at strangers, does it even out somehow?
I'm so disappointed. Disappointed that it's not easy, disappointed in myself that I don't know how to make it easy, disappointed that I don't know how to care enough to do anything, about anything. Except for continue the conversation, and ponder my inexplicable disappointment with being.
