The Meaninglessness of Life
There exist aplenty such things as may cause one to wonder, “how and why is it so?”, and my mind indeed does revel transiently in that spell of curiosity on a few occasions. However, there is something which with its esotericism mystifies me far more often than do such wonders as the expanse of the universe or the human brain. That which I refer to is optimism, and their partisans called optimists, by extension.
I have great respect for the longanimity that optimists have in face of adversity. I cannot, however, bring myself to think along their lines. The world is to me a wellspring of woes, an ocean of gloom, and we are but helpless prisoners seeking to minimize suffering. I am uncertain whether the extant pandemic has potentiated so saturnine a process of thought, but I never held a high opinion of life itself. If anything vexes me as much as the mechanical utterance of ‘India is a secular country’ which doubtless is a fruit of indoctrination, it is the platitude, ‘life is beautiful’. It is not; not to me, certainly.
Of the notion that blissful days are in order, much may be said in accord. For one, a believer thereof does not resign himself to the present, but is prepared to make sacrifices for the future, so that better days may grace the lives of his descendants. For another, this has likely essayed a major role in the progress of humanity thus far. We have by all means civilized ourselves in the fullness of time, and while much yet remains to be done, our progress is testimony to the inventiveness of our race. Ever do we desire to ‘be better’ and ‘do better’, and ‘usher in a better world’.
Yet, all must come to a stop. Termination shall therefore befall all that is good. Time is indifferent to our labour, and is the ultimate destroyer. This is not a claim in favour of such abeyance as may cease our toils for a ‘better future’ — it may well be said that such an act would be frightfully contrary to our instinct of survival. For we have found merits in civilization that ensures survival, the functioning of which grant us ‘opportunities.’
It just so happens that life therefore has no higher meaning. A human is but a bunch of cells, peregrinating towards extinction, and such labour as we undertake for a ‘better future’ is presumably consistent only with an instinct for survival, blended with our inventiveness; and not with any higher meaning or purpose of life (we may understand ‘higher purpose’ as a purpose that transcends our instincts). And should, fate forbid, scarcity of our basic necessities prevail across the world, even first world countries, there would be no reason to regard all our optimism and idealism as worth anything. We shall perhaps descend to tribalism yet again. With the uncertainties of life and the tempest of Nature, such a scenario could well be realized.
But even without so drastic an event, life assails us with much that forms its repertory of misfortune. Spells of delight are few and far between.
Trudging through life, therefore, is akin to a fervid attempt at balancing oneself on a rope connecting two mountain peaks. Such a quandary, if the term may suffice to convey its gravity, could hardly be called ‘beautiful’.
I for one find delight in such little things as words, which explains why I write the way I do — purely to amuse myself, heedless of the lexicons and the collective patience of followers or others who may chance upon this essay. For here I am answerable to none; I engage in wordplay that sends solutes of contentment, however momentary, coursing through my arteries.
Yet, life, with its illnesses physical and mental, with its potent tides of misfortune, is too great a price to pay for the little pleasures of delightful prose. I do not suppose it is depression so to hold; only a manner of thought.
I wholly intend this essay as a bitter assault on the know-it-alls on the question-and-answer website Quora who seem to write as if they have solutions to psychological problems; who seem to have answers to everything; who tender the bromidic and in fact unhelpful advice of ‘thinking about one’s family’ when one feels suicidal.
I for one have thus far not felt so. But I do think I can empathize, however ineptly, with so strong a sense of gloom. These know-it-alls, however, use a condescensional tone to convince a questioner, who may have been subsumed by the sea of the foregoing negative sentiments, that what he feels is really not psychological but either attention-seeking or but an evanescent sentiment of negativity that a few provocative words could dispel.
To them, I should say, “Pray do not let loose the contagion that is your machismo.” I used to pretend that depression was concocted codswallop; that standing as a metaphorical mountain as would perhaps an action hero in a movie may help deflect the barrage of problems life had to hurl at one with laser precision; that those claiming to be affected were snivelers, until problems overwhelmed me. I do not say I was depressed, for I never had a diagnosis done, but there did prevail a considerable spell of helplessness; when much mental energy was expended to achieve practically naught for seemingly far too long; when failure was not besprinkled with little moments of success.
It is but natural in these tribulations for panache, for intrepidity, to morph into utter nothingness, for these are not invulnerable sentiments and we would be remiss to regard them so.
Much must be done to achieve bliss, but it takes only a little to shatter it all.
As Arthur Schopenhauer once wrote:
That human life must be some kind of mistake is sufficiently proved by the simple observation that man is a compound of needs which are hard to satisfy; that their satisfaction achieves nothing but a painless condition in which he is only given over to boredom; and that boredom is a direct proof that existence is itself valueless, for boredom is nothing other than the sensation of the emptiness of existence.
