What am I doing here?

What are you doing here? What is anybody? It is a question I keep asking myself, increasingly more frequently with each passing day – a question to which I cannot find a satisfactory answer.

At some points in my life, I think we are here just to be happy. On those days, I am perfectly content to go out and do whatever pleases me – be it going out with my friends for an evening of merrymaking or buying myself an overpriced pair of shoes or even calling in sick to work for the heck of it. If the purpose of life is to be happy, I’m going to be happy or die trying.

Or so I tell myself.

Because sometimes I wake up and feel this vast emptiness, this hollowness that no amount of merrymaking or overpriced shoes or sick days could take away, this void crying out to be filled with something more than just my own egocentric whims and fancies. The feeling that all of this is pointless, is meaningless, is futile at best and devastating at worst becomes overwhelming and I just want to put my head in my hands and weep.

We think that we humans are somehow better off with the capacity to think, but perhaps less intelligent beings hot the better deal in the evolutionary (or creationist?) toss-up. Not having to wonder if any of this makes sense or means anything sometimes seems wonderful, compared to the torture of Thursday afternoon existential crises or Sunday evening conversations with your conscience.

Oh to be a dog and to love freely and unconditionally.
Oh to be a cat and not care if you are loved freely and unconditionally.
Oh to be an eagle and to soar over oceans and continents.
Oh to be a tortoise and carry your home on your back.
Oh to be an elephant, an ant, a crocodile, a platypus.
Oh to be a human.

Strange, isn’t it. How being a human is so very different from being human. Yet who can definitively say what it means to be human? Is there even one thing, one action, one emotion that makes us human? I don’t know. And I don’t believe anyone who claims to know.

Well, then, what resolution do I have for the questions I asked? What am I doing here? What are we doing here? Perhaps the question isn’t really what we are or are not doing here, but what we should be doing.

Perhaps.

I thought that writing this, putting my thoughts to paper, sifting through the chaos in my mind would help give me some clarity. But I remain just as confused (conflicted?) as I was before.

So, what now?

 

Empty São Paulo, Brazil, March 2014

Empty
São Paulo, Brazil, March 2014

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