Tag: philosophy

  • The Sadness of Depression

    The sad part of depression is that you cannot choose happiness for the one that is depressed. It is a choice that only they themselves can make. My attempts at raising the spirits of those that seem downtrodden or just down often leaves me questioning my competence and my significance. But such questioning only lasts as long as it takes for me to realise that it’s not about me, nor are the choices mine to make. I sometimes think the greatest gift to a depressed soul is acting out their potential in plain view of them, without throwing it in their face, regardless of the motivation. But then again, maybe not, because it can so easily be mistaken for antagonism or condescension.

    I’ve slipped into that trap of condescension many times, despite it never being deliberate. That trap where I go off on a tangent and lecture others about why they should have no reason to be depressed, while forgetting that depression is simply a secondary emotion. It is the cloak of what lies beneath. It’s the guard that keeps us safe from facing what we truly fear. At least it has been for me on many occasions. The underlying fear of rejection, or potential of being insignificant kept me recoiled in the safe space that I created for myself. Worse still, the fear of failure on a grand scale that would rob me of any shards of credibility that I was clinging to.

    But it’s so easy to forget all that when I see myself reflected in the weary grimaces of others. Because I’ve seemingly risen above my last entanglement with the darkness, my ego drives me to believe that I’m in a position to tell others how to do it. I’m not. I never was. And I suddenly regret every indulgence that led me to spew unsolicited advice to those that seemed to be in a space darker than my own. I know it’s not what I needed. I know it’s not what turned the tables for me, because no matter how much someone says about the right things to do to escape that darkness, it was only when I detached myself from the experiences that weighed me down that I realised that the experience didn’t define me. The callous or crass behaviour of others was not a reflection of my worth. It was simply an insight into their weaknesses and fears. But they projected it on me, and I was a willing victim because I didn’t believe I was worth any more than they allowed me to be.

    I was wrong. In more ways than one, I was wrong. Sometimes getting it wrong turned out beautifully, and sometimes it drove me further away from reality. But getting it wrong was never the end of the road. It was always the beginning of a new one.

  • That Thing Called Free Will

    It occurred to me tonight that it is entirely in the interests of atheists to discount, or at least attempt to disprove the reality of free will. In the absence of free will, it’s easy to argue that our actions and decisions are nothing more than elaborate sequences of instinctive behaviour hard wired into our brains. The more we experience, the greater our ability to present individuality because of the increased variables that influence our behaviour.

    However, such a theory falls far short of explaining the reason why we are able to actively and consciously choose between multiple outcomes of equal benefit. It also fails to address the reason behind us being able to consciously act against our instinctive responses. In fact, in the absence of free will, can we even claim to be conscious beings? Being conscious, being aware, being lucid all imply that there is an intelligence that allows us to acquire, grasp, and process information, and then do something meaningful, or at the least, something deliberate with that information. Even choosing not to act when action is prompted is further proof of this free will that we have.

    In considering all this, I find it somewhat amusing that many, especially atheists who pride themselves in being scientifically grounded, find it necessary to first prove that we have free will through scientific means despite the evidence that we live out on a daily basis that confirms our ability to choose independent of instinct.

    It reminds me of the ridiculous approach that we take towards life and health these days. For centuries we’ve known that chicken soup is healthy and aids in our recovery from cold or flu symptoms. Yet it was denounced by the ‘scientifically adept’ community of health professionals because no scientist took the time to understand and therefore prove the benefit that it provides. Don’t believe me? Read this. Yet if I were to take every atheist and scientist seriously, I’d have to discard the wisdom of the ages that was not grounded in scientific research, and wait patiently for them to come up with remedies that actually deal with the root causes of illnesses rather than their creative ways of dealing with the symptoms instead.

    Atheists, in all my discussions with them to date, have proven to be extremely myopic in their view of the world. They insist that their independence of religious dogma (which can also be argued to be a false notion of theirs) raises them above the ‘sheep’ that subscribe to theistic scriptures and principles. If I were to take the example of the chicken soup a step further, such a simple matter that took scientists possibly millennia to figure out benefited millions of people in the meantime. How? Through simple observation and common sense. So to apply this to the concept of creation, and therefore a creator, why should I abandon my belief system in there being a god until such time as some scientist in a distant time and place is able to confirm what I knew all along through simple observation and common sense?

    It simply doesn’t make sense, does it? The atheistic mind set that is. Abandon all knowledge unless scientifically proven and acquired, and collaborate with your peers to determine what is best for society because morality has no divine basis. The argument is so flawed that it’s almost entirely ludicrous.

    Oh, in my ramblings I forgot to make the point I started out trying to make. Why is it convenient for atheists to discount free will? Simple. If we have free will, it implies intelligent design. Intelligent design implies intelligent creation. And, you guessed it, intelligent creation implies an intelligent creator. It all flies in the face of the parts of the theories of evolution that suggests that we simply evolved into intelligent beings after originating from a single celled amoeba, or some crock like that. Even that single celled amoeba has a specific function and purpose, and I challenge any atheist to explain what cause an amoeba to be an amoeba. And when they explain that, I’d like to hear them explain what causes the cause of the amoeba to be an amoeba to be the cause of the cause of the amoeba. See how ridiculous infinite regression and the insane theories of causality can be?

    Yet atheists fancy themselves as being the only intelligent free thinking beings around. I beg to differ.

  • A Time Not So Long Ago

    There was a time when I considered engagement with others as being tantamount to the meaning and purpose of my life. I don’t any more, which is unsettling because as much as I don’t seem to yearn for it, I miss it as well. Ambivalence has never enjoyed my patronage because the indecision and discomfort it brings is repulsive.

    I always pride myself on being decisive, yet with age often comes many life experiences that either spawn wisdom or regret, and often both. In acquiring these assets, I often find that knowing more than before only highlights the abyss of ignorance that stares at me while I indulge in the seemingly noble endeavour of engaging with the hope of understanding.

    Understanding is an outcome that seldom accompanies debate these days. Perhaps my pointless circular debates with atheists have eroded my jadedness to the point of disillusion or perhaps even despair. Despair at the realisation that despite my greatest aspirations, or my most sincere efforts or intentions, arrogance will always triumph over knowledge. Arrogance breeds ignorance, and therefore it stands to reason that by extension, ignorance, in the end, will also obliterate knowledge.

    Another pointless post contemplating the purpose of life, the meaning of engaging with others, the goals of existence, and the irony of life. I feel clichéd. I feel as if my ability to contribute, to fight, to persuade, or even to influence, has been almost entirely expensed. That old familiar forgotten feeling of mental and emotional exhaustion lends its stench to my being again tonight.

    It appears I am becoming a bitter old soul after all. The brittleness of my being is all I  am able to share.

     

  • Perhaps…

    Farting against thunder. That’s often the sum total of my state of mind these days. For a moment today I felt as if sharing my thoughts on this and other blogs of mine was in fact perpetuating the whispers of insignificance that taunt me. It’s an insane cycle. Needing an outlet, not necessarily creative or emotional, but just something to release the noise, make space for the clutter to fall into an open space so that I might be able to look for clues on how to unravel it all.

    I sometimes feel repulsed by what I write. At other times, I’m repulsed by the fact that I write at all. I wonder if all my efforts at unlocking the logic behind the ridiculous labels is in fact me denying that those labels actually apply to me. Perhaps I have a mental disorder but my arrogance and obstinacy prevents me from acknowledging it. Perhaps my views on what is or is not good in this world is in fact tainted with a sense of idealism that is unachievable.

    I shy away from debates that used to impassion me. I look at others and recede believing that my attempts at getting them to understand, or appreciate, or simply entertain an alternate view is futile. I seem prone to taking up lost causes as if doing so may spur on some global reawakening about something simple that seems pivotal to the resurrection of old school values that I cling to so dearly. Perhaps I only cling to them out of fear of not being able to embrace the new? Perhaps I’m not farting at all against the thunder. Perhaps the thunder is in fact the clutter in my head, seeing chaos where only randomness exists, and seeking order where none is possible.

    Perhaps the days of my sanity are numbered. Perhaps the purpose of life that always seemed so poignantly obvious to me was in fact a figment of my own imagination. A conjured ruse of a troubled teenager’s aspirations lacking in substance and form, with a life breathed into it from the seat of desperation that wrestles within my soul. Perhaps I was feigning sanity all along.

  • Self-imposed humiliation is more palatable than suffering humiliation at the hands of others

  • Is this the real life…

    I’ve been faced with a daunting realisation these last few days. Perhaps I’m not so average after all. I’m not better, nor am I worse, but I’m starting to realise that I’m probably just fundamentally different. This may sound like a romantic notion to some, but to me this is potentially life altering. The reason it has such an impact on me is because it calls to question every observation or piece of advice that I ever offered anyone. If my disposition and point of departure is so significantly different from most others, it means that my criticisms and insights are distinctly biased and potentially useless for most of the people that I ever engage with.

    These are troubling thoughts for someone that has found much comfort in being able to offer advice to others so that they may avoid the mistakes that I’ve made. But this realisation now suggests that my mistakes are not likely to be repeated by others because I am not part of the normal crowd. I guess in many ways I’ve been resisting this realisation all my life. I’ve thought of myself as normal but different. Now I just think I’m different, and I’m not sure I grasp the concept of normal at all. I doubt I ever did.

    My ability to detach my emotions from reason is a quirk not appreciated by most. It helps in times of crisis, but it causes me to look distinctly uninterested and often annoyed when others are freaking out while I fail to see a reason to freak out just yet. Given that most people don’t live in true crisis mode all the time, it makes this skill of mine somewhat tedious to deal with. And surrounding myself with people that are in fact living in crisis mode continually will just drain the last drop of optimism from my gut. So I guess I’m in limbo.

    Silence is the only comfort I seem to enjoy these days. Everything else demands a presence of mind and a demand of my attention that has become quite an effort. I’m distracted most of the time with thoughts of…everything. What was, what is, what might be, what might not be, what could have been, what should have been, what I’m glad hasn’t been, and it goes on. It goes on painfully and tediously. But through it all I’ve managed to remain somewhat functional and able to offer some purpose in my presence. The more I experience, the more jaded is my response to life.

    Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like? No, it can’t be. If it were, it would negate the realisation that prompted this post to begin with. I look at others my age and I struggle to relate to their frame of mind. In some ways I relate to the mind set of those 15 years my junior, but I find myself at odds with how they approach their sense of purpose in  life. I’m disjointed from society, from the community, and often from my family. But I’ve been revelling in that disjointedness until now under the misconception of it having been a valuable skill that allowed me to view the world with a fresh perspective.

    Who was I fooling all this time? I’m cynically jaded. There is no fresh perspectives for a jaded one. Suddenly Bohemian Rhapsody is mocking me.

  • In Need of a Label

    Sometimes I feel inclined to succumb to the labelling that makes others feel more comfortable to be with me or around me. Perhaps I should be the stereotype that is expected of me, and assume the position of vulnerability and neediness that would make others feel more significant around me. Labels, stigmas, stereotypes and the like repulse me. It forces me into a pigeon hole and makes me feel smothered and claustrophobic.

    It’s seemingly easier for me to deal with others that don’t fit the mould than it is for others to deal with me. I don’t tow the line when I’m expected to, and I don’t reserve opinion when it would be proper or polite. Instead, at this ripe old age, I still fail to realise that sincerity is not what is being sought, but rather affirmation. Saying the right thing at the wrong time has probably gotten more people in trouble than anything else.

    Such is the double standards of being human. We choose to see others through our insecurities and then lash out when they respond in a way that exposes it. I’m probably a prick of a human being because I don’t see fit to play along out of obligation when needed to do so. I assume that others are as passionate about the truth, sincerity and transparency as I am, and I’ll repeat that as many times as is needed despite knowing how arrogant it must sound.

    Proclaiming not to be arrogant isn’t the same as professing to be humble, which as they say is arrogance in itself. The absence of arrogance is not necessarily humility, nor is the absence of humility arrogance. Both are in fact perspectives that others hold of us which most often would not be true because it’s easier for me to dismiss someone else as being arrogant instead of accepting that I may have failed to engage meaningfully or explained myself sufficiently. This doesn’t excuse the behaviour of those that are inconsiderate morons who assume that the world revolves around them, although having said that, I get the nagging feeling that I just contradicted myself.

    This is a pointless ramble.

  • Compassion Fatigue

    Hearing the news about a mosque burning down in the US doesn’t evoke as strong a response as it should. Muslims around the world have become so accustomed to hearing news of such atrocities being carried out against their fellow brethren that even a drone strike on innocent civilians prompts nothing more than a woeful sigh, a shake of the head, sometimes accompanied by a muttered prayer, and often a curse for the aggressors.

    It’s the downside of being human. Our ability to adapt and cope dictates that our tolerance levels will rise each time we experience something despicable. This implies that we’ll shrug our shoulders to heinous crimes that we’ve accepted we cannot prevent or avenge in any way, and so we distract ourselves with much more menial issues to compensate for the helplessness that we feel in other areas of grave concern. But this never lasts forever. At some point we realise that what doesn’t kill us doesn’t make us stronger, but in fact, it only makes us more tolerant, to a point.

    There’s another effect that is often overlooked when people so dreamily proclaim that same cliche. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. No it doesn’t. It starts something in you that grows as long as your capacity and tolerance for it can harbour it until eventually you reach breaking point and suddenly realise that it never made you stronger to begin with. It only made you brittle. With each incident that wears away at your dignity and security, you practice tolerance and patience, but until the underlying tension is addressed, you become more brittle each day until eventually you lose any flexibilty and give way to the extremist that lurks in everyone. But at that point, no one is able to witness the horrors and taunts that preceded that final straw, so instead of understanding that the victim has finally lashed out, they become the victims and accuse you of unwarranted aggression instead.

    Perspective. Context. Understanding. It’s been a while since I witnessed their inclusion in any rational debate about being human, or about human rights and dignity.