Existential and Loving (?) It
"Do what you will, this life's a Fiction,
"And full of Contradiction."
--William Blake
Like the proverbial ant crawling on a Mobius Strip. Going nowhere, but never
exactly retracing a step. A flock of self-important specks crowded on a dot
floating in a blackness we've yet to measure the size of.
I find it difficult to sympathize with most people today. Perhaps it's a result
of my desensitized upbringing, babysat as I was after school by the A-team and
G.I. Joe. Perhaps I was kicked out of the sandbox one time too many. But
regardless of my haphazard rearing, whenever I overhear someone complaining
about how they paid too much for their Land Rover or how their girl/boyfriend
of two weeks (or five minutes in a phone booth) has decided to jump ship for a
greener pasture, I cannot help but feel a raging desire to crack them over the
head with the espresso mug they've been dribbling into. A strange attitude
coming from a Scorpio I realize, obsessive and perfectionistic as we tend to
be. Nor do I consider myself some Birkenstock-wearing earth-biscuit whining
emptily about how the world needs to look at the big picture and hold hands
around a campfire, toasting marshmellows and humming Phish songs. But when a poor woman comes into my
shop and offers me oral sex in exchange for a few donuts simply because she
hasn't eaten yet that day, my typical knee-jerk reaction is to wonder
why the hell I (or anyone for that matter) bother to live ensconced on a
planet of mad and desperate people, knowing full well that I will eventually
become one of them, that is if I haven't already...for who is to say that I am
or am not mad?
We all have days when the sheer ennui of existence soaks in, leaving us with
those pesky imponderables Man so loves to play with, like "why are we here?
what is our purpose in life? why the hell did I get that flare 'do back in
the late '70's, even though my friends swore it was cool?" Answers have been
inundating us since the first nimrod pushed off some goofy theology in an
attempt to impress chicks. Everything from at least somewhat reasonable theologies to
completely lunatic theologies to the lack thereof; all of them wrong or at least
incomplete to be more specific, because no one dominates and truth has a nasty
habit of asserting itself like a cheap mint-green leisure suit. People sell salvation in the Wednesday dollar ads,
yet they aren't sleeping any easier than we; just richer. I've never been one
to deny the possibility of an external Being; far from it. But stuck between
the mad futlity of a daily search for personal truth and Jan Crouch's hair pleading
daily for my money, it surprises me less and less that whatever Being hovers in the
spiritual ether seems to have moved on.
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