I listen to Christian music. Songs of lament, songs of joy, songs of wonder – all to a self-sacrificing God.
I have abstained from attending church for the past two months. At first because I elected to work instead of making time for mass, and then to run away from the unbearable feeling of being trapped. Yet I still listen to the strains of songs of worship – seeing a painful beauty in the lyrics.
My psychiatrist is funny, he says things that makes me wonder whether or not he’s mocking me. Maybe I’m being sensitive. I’m just another face in his endless stream of patients and it’s all rote to him. He made this comment where it’s like my point of view is that I want to die is because my life is shit. Which is completely untrue. My life is great. But why I want to die is because I struggle to find meaning. Increasingly I see there is little of it.
I want to die because of life seems pointless. I used to be very Christian and now I see so little sense in it. Many Christian friends have tried to bolster me up by saying just because I no longer feel God doesn’t mean that he’s still not there for me. And now that I rely on rational thought to reason out the existence of God, I side closer and close to being a non-believer.
The notion of believing in God seems rather selfish to me. That there must of been a God that created ME. That loves and adore ME. That will take MY soul after death and give ME great happiness. I understand how that naive hope can be profound to someone who endures endless suffering, like starving children in Ethiopia. So that the suffering that we endure seems meaningful as we can hope to achieve limitless joy in the afterlife.
There are billions of people in this world – to think that our souls all converge to places with no boundaries is ludicrous as no such place can exist. As scientist continue to unravel the mysteries of the animal nature and that is sheer human arrogance that purports that animals have no feelings that matter. To define that the humans serve some greater purpose – in awe of this almighty God; I can not embrace that way of thinking anymore.
Talking to my psychologist, I am supposed to define my own sense of purpose. To take the good things of my life and shape it. That it is all perception and I can shape it. Find my place in society, fulfill my ambitions etc.
Humans are social creatures and the ultimate aim is to find our place in society. To tap into the infinite possibilities governed by our intellect and our creativity. And to be fair, I enjoy society. The company of my friends. The array of men I sleep with so I can pretend that physical intimacy can overrule my other senses, and the idea that I am at least of some use to someone.
The cacophony of music, lyrical poetry about searching for meaning against the screaming voices inside my head demanding that I end it all. Most times I am abivalent towards living. Doing my spring cleaning, I see that I own many beautiful things. I look at all these things I feel tired. They are merely just things and they do not fill the emptiness. I have many craft materials that I could create beautiful things – but again they are just things. In the end I sit alone in my room as waves of melancholy wash over me.
It’s bittersweet. Sometimes fear of living is fearing consequences of action, or not knowing what path to take. I’m willing to be held accountable. I even know which path I’m supposed to walk. I just hold no satisfaction in it. I linger in ennui hoping that the music will inspire me.
My life isn’t really that bad. But it doesn’t mean I have to live it does it? In a hundred years no one will remember me. And if there is no God, then there is really no reason to continue. And if indeed someone by fluke they do remember me, they won’t care about what I felt, I will simply be another statistic in the mortality table.
Gosh, I’m boring myself with my existential angst.