I’m exhausted from a trying day. More trying than usual. Yet at this late hour I find myself browsing through old notes that formed part of a feeble attempt to write the novel about my life that so many keep insisting would be a worthwhile endeavour. Apparently it holds the promise of being therapeutic to others, if not myself.
I looked at the word count and was disappointed to see that I had only written about 12,000 words so far. But each paragraph tells a story of its own. If not a struggle, a setback, with the occasional peppering of optimism and a joyful experience. Always short lived. I’ve been toying with the idea of sharing snippets of it from time to time on my blog, or possibly setting up a dedicated page to just ramble on endlessly. But the very real possibility of not finding an audience for it dissuades me from even trying.
I know that one day I’ll regret not putting into words what anguish my heart holds, yet also what buoyancy my soul nurtures. My painfully endearing resilience.
To write or not to write…?
My argument against God was that the universe seemed so cruel and unjust. But how had I got this idea of just and unjust? A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line. What was I comparing this universe with when I called it unjust? If the whole show was bad and senseless from A to Z, so to speak, why did I, who was supposed to be part of the show, find myself in such violent reaction against it? A man feels wet when he falls into water, because man is not a water animal: a fish would not feel wet. Of course, I could have given up my idea of justice by saying that it was nothing but a private idea of my own. But if I did that, then my argument against God collapsed too—for the argument depended on saying that the world was really unjust, not simply that it did not happen to please my private fancies. Thus in the very act of trying to prove that God did not exist—in other words, that the whole of reality was senseless—I found I was forced to assume that one part of reality—namely my idea of justice—was full of sense. Consequently atheism turns out to be too simple. If the whole universe has no meaning, we should never have found out that it has no meaning: just as, if there were no light in the universe and therefore no creatures with eyes, we should never know it was dark. Dark would be without meaning.