When I talk about being miserable I mean one’s discomfort with their place in the world. Sadness and tragedy can come from anywhere, I’m talking about the feeling we get when we contemplate the dull knife of death inching into us or when the realities we’ve built suffer damage.
We’re always chasing vapors and always confounded when they slip our grasp. We buy clothes to fit in, but still we dwell on our nakedness. We chase love and file for divorce. Companies that thrive on clothing, make-up, dieting, and fucking rely on Photoshop and filters to make people look flawless, but perfection isn’t obtainable. Our very existence hinges on split-ends and pimples.
Perfection is the reason I let the holy books gather dust. To present humanity with a supernatural caricature of ourselves and tell everyone it’s the best—the highest aspiration—makes everyone less of a person by comparison. It’s a psychic attack built around making people feel powerless and ineffective without co-dependence, not just on God, but the man at the pulpit who speaks on His behalf.
So what good does this do anyone? Why should we do anything at all if everything we want and strive for is bullshit? Why go to church? Why go on? Why not jump into traffic or throw yourself off a cliff? The answer is simple. You wouldn’t do that because that’s not what you feel compelled to do.
We’re driven by our biology to live, survive, and smash our bodies together in the way that makes life go on. What’s damning is figuring out why? This obnoxious need to know. The raspy ceaseless voice that cries “Why?” long after our childhood curiosities dwindle. Our parents eventually get really sick of answering questions and say something like “just because” or “I don’t know” and that’s probably as honest as our parents will ever be. We’re never going to have all the answers. Even if we do someday, what does it matter? The sun’s going to explode in a few billion and wipe away every deed done, forever.