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The problem, perhaps my central problem, is that I'm naturally lazy. I want to short circuit the path to brilliance, to excellence in art, in expression, in being a human worthy of approbation. I've all but given up on philosophy. Argument, or even friendly philosophic discourse, has lost much of its appeal; in short, I am not inclined to want to proffer reasons for my beliefs, whatever they may be (I'm not sure) anymore. I think there is too much egoism involved in being an ironist to ever become one. I agree with Rorty that doubt is a luxury: skepticism can morph into decadence, and I despise those sloppy of spirit. I similarly am in possession of a passionate hatred (too strong a word?) for nihilism in its moral and value manifestations, though there is a creeping suspicion that haunts the core of my being that there is no God and that moral reality is contingent on human desire. Disgusting! How perverse and goddamned disgusting reality would be if such were the case. Epistemic nihilism strikes me as self defeating, and talk of "the myth of reality" as the words of one divorced from experience.

Everything rings hollow. I am increasingly intolerant of any form of sensory stimulation. Noises that used to go unregistered to consciousness now sound like a bell tolling ten feet away. I increasingly hate all things human, and yet am of the understanding that it may be that human beings are my only salvation. I am so lonely. It is a little strange that I would lament my loneliness, or I shall say, experience loneliness while at the same time experience a rising misanthropy. Contradiction. I am a man of contradictions.

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

-Walt Whitman

How could one, considering the imposing, overwhelming nature of the universe, ever consider himself "large?" I am small and contain multitudes.

I am paralyzed by fear. I think it fair to say that fear is the defining emotion of my life. It is what is responsible for my ghostly existence, my distancing of myself (whoever that is) from myself and those external, from the world, in short. Freud postulated that our psychic makeup is rooted in war, the univocal self, the ego having to constantly battle, negotiate, or otherwise defend the conscious, emergent self from the demands of the always warring id and superego. Our psychic makeup is also rooted, if the notion of defense mechanisms, a concept given its most seminal explication by Freud's daughter Anna, are to be granted validity, in mystery. Know thyself, so goes the imperative... where is the key, the door is locked.

It is probably not an uncommon phenomenon, one comes to discover that perhaps he might escape death by refusing to live. Rocks don't die, do they? I might be a rock. What a lovely existence. Just hangin' around, free from the pains of Sisyphus. Cowardice! (a voice cries out) I think this voice is the voice of my father, but not my 'real' father, rather, a kind of idealized version of the man of flesh and blood. But the armor surrounding this image of the man, this voice, is beginning to crack. It's an empirical matter. I am beginning to see, perhaps for the first time in my life, manifestations of fear in my father. They are far from obvious, in fact, they are very subtle, only a keen eye would catch sight of them. He's getting older. Mind you, he's still in his forties, but he's taken a beating. The long hours year after year, raising six kids, marital struggles, the loneliness, stress, the motorcycle accidents (yep, that's plural) that have fractured ribs, snapped his collar bone like a twig, fractured his humerus, etc. Is my father afraid to die? The thought inspires a certain level of anxiety in me. My own death is rendered a more real reality, one demanding confrontation. I AM GOING TO DIE!! I AM GOING TO DIE!! Someone help me! Grant me immortality quickly, where is the elixir so that I might drink? Such is the response of a being the product of millions of years of evolution. This is not the response of the ghost, the rock, the being who does not affirm his existence as a positive value.

Did you just learn the news today? Yesterday? That you are going to die. Maybe it's not such a big deal. Old news. There are times when I tell myself that it's really not all that important. I might even think of what a pitiful, pathetic image it is of ole Ray Kurzweil taking 200 supplements a day, with an i.v. in place infusing chemicals, drinking alkaline water, all in order to stay alive until the 'singularity.' Pathetic. Such a judgment, in my mind, presupposes that his central motivation for such measures is fear. Stupid coward, (I tell myself too) learn to die like everyone else. Maybe such actions strike me as ungrateful somehow. I also consider the following possibility, to quote C.S. Lewis: "Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours." Perhaps death is a gift, assuring us our own being.

Infinitely greater than any fear surrounding my own death (a death that I am always, it seems, on the verge of wanting to embrace anyways, and I even sometimes experience self loathing over the fact that I am too cowardly to cross the veil) is the fear of loss. The loss of persons that I love. The loss of their innocence. I'm afraid that one day they might suffer immensely. I'm afraid that this world will break them down. Destroy their dreams. More concretely, I'm afraid that one day my daughter might be raped, consider Irreversible. I'm afraid my son might be attacked by my neighbor's mean dogs. Are these fears irrational? My father was a paramedic in the Air Force, he once told me, as a young man, a story that haunts me still. Car wreck. Young married couple, so full of life. The woman was killed, her flesh mutilated. It is the image, as reported by my father, of the young husband (who would go on to die), covered in blood, looking over at his mangled and deceased wife. And that's it. A moment frozen in time.

Dysteleology. The greatest culprit, playing the role of detective, for my godlessness. My ghostliness. Forlornness. Horror. Anger. Fear.

Sometimes I want to tell the antinatalist types to just shut the fuck up already and stop being so whiny! At the same time, I'm not wholly unsympathetic to that which they are propagating. I suppose I am weary of the universalization involved in at least some manifestations of antinatalism: non-existent entities cannot be deprived of anything, coming into being constitutes or will involve harm and suffering, always and everywhere "imposing" life and bringing children into the world is wrong. I'm weary of the conclusion, being more prone to perhaps accept a pragmatic contextualism as regards the matter. In my discussions with the local community college antinatalists, one of the more frustrating things I have run into is this: they are, as the position demands, moral realists, and yet refuse to establish the underpinnings of the said realism. They talk of moral obligation as against personal desire, attitudes, etc, and do nothing to even attempt to ground their normative claims; in short, in the face of said prescriptivity, and in the absence of defense, one can always fall back into moral nihilism, denying that there are prescriptive moral facts. (I'll have babies of I want to dammit!)

Anyways, suicide. It's been on my mind. I do realize now, after so many years of having a suicidal disposition, that I am an entity that can actually end its own cognitive processes. I find myself dreaming of suicide almost constantly.

1) What about my children? Indeed. I would like to think of myself as an honorable....not honorable. Not the right word. I suppose I believe in fidelity, even in this age of decadence and structural collapse. But Jesus Christ, how long can one go on living one's life out of a sense of duty? None too fun :(

2) Horror stories. Our bodies are pretty damn tough. People have survived self inflicted point blank gunshot wounds, even shotgun blasts; the gun is angled wrong against the temple, blows out one's eyes, leaves the brain intact. Plastic surgery. Brainstem, basic regulatory structures are left in tact, higher order functioning is obliterated. One has the pleasure of living one's life as a vegetable. Hell, a man can't even go the old: vehicular suicide via exhaust fumes route due to catalytic converters....guess one has to break out the ole charcoal grill.

3) It's late. Tired. Nothing profound to offer. I am actually quite disgusted with myself for even bringing up the issue (as it relates to myself) here. That voice, (probably comes from my father....'pain goes away son, tough it out in the until then')enters my mind: would you just quit being such a whiny sack of shit and just get it over with already! Stop trying to add the elements of some kind of epoch unfolding into the mix. A body encased in a pine box, tossed into a ditch. There are hesitancies, perhaps in the end, it goes back to God, the whole Karamazovian 'rejecting the ticket' business. Understanding: identity is relational. To kill oneself is to kill the entire world. <-- wishful thinking? Who knows.

A Prayer

By DeadCanDance,

God? Is that your voice I hear? Given that you apparently speak to a lot of people, do they ever get strained? Those vocal cords. Do you ever lose your voice? Perhaps that's why I haven't heard you for so long, you lost your voice....

I didn't think God was supposed to lose his voice.

**Don't you know, God is disabled.**

How can a disabled God save us?

Man is getting a little too big for his britches God. It behooves you to break this silence. Either end the divine mystery or take some antibiotics, but your children are taking on new roles. Oh, well they forgot about you a long time ago, is this part of your plan? This divine disappearance? Are you passing the mantle of responsibility on to your children?

Get some rest God. Man is building a new Tower of Babel. You have some cursing to do.