08 January, 2015

Of Self Deception and Dark Things

In Synechdoche, New York, the dark comedy(is it a comedy?) by Charlie Kaufman, (this might be spoilers if you haven't seen the film by the way), the main character played by Philip Seymour Hoffman gets more and more entrenched in creating his magnum opus play, eventually creating a set of a city inside a warehouse. The play is never completed and his life takes a million odd turns and in the end, he surely felt that his life was a failure.

I am not old by modern standards, but as life goes by, more and more it seems that things don't work out the way I dream them or wish them to. This is, after all, simply what happens when one lives in a world where the Sun does not revolve around them and happens to even the most beautiful and famous of us. I never got a book accepted to be published. My comics never really amounted to much. I never really had any great epiphanies despite my excessive travelling, experimenting and hoboing. In fact, if anything, my experiences have further cemented my belief that most of what we deem worthwhile is simply human myopism. Life has just continued on as it has always been- brutal at times, but as honest as gravity.

There is some comfort I get by knowing that things that I have done in my life have helped people or animals. I spent a lot of time in Seattle planting trees for EarthCorp and making little pieces of art that a lot of school children have learned from. In the end, though, it has all fallen way short of what I had dreamed life would be and to tell the truth, it all seems like a bad drawn out Tarkovsky movie at times.

I am not sure what it is I wanted or why I came here. Joseph Campbell (the mythology and comparative religion professor made famous by Star Wars creator George Lucas) said that life isn't about finding meaning, but about experiencing life and what he says makes a lot of sense, even as I stay stuck in my own delusion and fear, continuing to search for the answer in crappy antidepressants and pointless jobs.

I feel like Hoffman in Synechdoche, New York, so attached to this life, and so focused on trying, but at the same time, so hopelessly lost and confused. I've attempted suicide before and seem to be even more confused than ever about why I didn't go through with it- it's not like life is suddenly going to get better- it's probably just going to be a little different.

But at the same time, killing oneself is an awfully messy thing to do in an awfully messy place. Not that staying around guarantees anything- the world will blow up with or without me and I could be an unwitting impetus behind some terrible mass genocide no matter what I do. Who knows?

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