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Saturday, December 3, 2011
I was reading Minette Walter's book, The Ice House, a minute ago.For some reason, 71 pages into the murder mystery, I was gripped with an anxiety not foreign to many netizens that i have googled for online.
I am not always conscious of my mortality. This reasons for procrastinating my bigger goals in life. Yet goals are such ridiculous measures of one's purpose and intent when I give this matter enough thought. If I am to live, only to die, then why was I conceived in the first place? It is nauseating to even guess what ill reasons justify my existence for it to be withdrawn from me again in the near future, and I want to know if my time as me has a purpose that I am sure I have not fulfilled because I am unaware of it. Does the fact that my life belongs to me not merit my knowledge of what I am to do with it? Some quote that their purpose is to change the world, to make other's lives better... while these are noble aspirations, I do think they fall short of being the reason for humanity's existence. If your reason for existing is to make another person's life less miserable, then what of the other person's purpose? If it is to make yet another individual happier, I would think that this cyclic system is a rather pointless exercise, for it does not seem to address why people were put on the face of earth.
When death does cross my mind but doesn't drop by to tamper with my heart, I would suppose it is because i can see it as a physical act of becoming compost, and not be tempted to delve into the complicated aspects of being gone.
I just want to know why I'm here so that when death asks me what I've been up to since I last left him for my mother's womb, I can truly be accountable for my years of absence.
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