Proverbs 27:20 Hell and destruction are never full; so the eyes of man are never satisfied.
I hope everyone’s Valentine’s day was exactly what you wanted. I’m experiencing an anticlimax, a kind of nothingness, in response to Sunday. The message from our pastor was all things I already know and basically agree with, made some good points, then I left and felt the nothingness. Valentine’s dinner was great, until I wanted more wine. Which I did. But the glass ended up full of nothingness. We exchanged gifts and cards, then I washed dishes and went back to the normalness of nothingness. She’s trying, she really is, and so am I. I could do a spreadsheet with two columns with pluses and minuses if I were properly motivated, and nothingness would win because nothingness is huge:
I’ve just had a lovely lunch, entirely adequate, and had a cup of tea. And yet I’m thirsty, and given the opportunity I’d eat an enormous dish of ice cream. I feel empty. I’m aware of my nothingness.
Politicians are nothingness, speaking wind to people who understand nothing. they should take a kind of Hippocratic oath to do no harm before they take office, because they take our taxes and use our money in ways that bring harm, after promising to help.
Insert political protest song with a kernel of wisdom and truth:
Drivers are nothingness, no courtesy and all selfishness. Drivers should take the same oath because bad manners and selfishness cause crashes. We make it all politically correct by calling them “accidents” but most are not accidental. Most are just selfishness exerted against another driver.
Snow is nothingness, crystallized water that turns to mud and reduces my shoes to soggy, muddy nothingness and chill my feet to the aching bones. I should be allowed to take a snow day, or a mental health day. Not that I think it’ll help me cope with the day after.
Status is nothingness, striving for a new equilibrium at some higher level, not realizing that to advance you have to push someone else down, because that’s how it works. It’s not how it HAS to work, it just seems like that’s the only way. It’s a tenuous pursuit, a rope bridge over a river of life-lava, and it’s already on fire at both ends. And enough people don’t believe we can ALL win, so they take everything and leave us nothing. When our rope breaks, if we have the strength to climb we climb back to the starting point, a level zero, otherwise we fall further into the lava pit. Occasionally people have pity, compassion, call it what you will, and they throw us a rope to help us climb. It lasts a while, until the next crisis and eventually people run out of extra rope. Or they just let go.
Time is nothingness. While we waited and watched, just overnight, artificially overpriced Valentine’s chocolates, cards, and roses became out of season and went on sale. Everything in life should be made affordable, so no one goes hungry, no one lives wanting, and no one feels unappreciated. The markup on movie concessions is a testament to this obscenity. The 600% markup on snacks and drinks and popcorn only tells me I’m unwelcome, I’m unworthy, I’m undeserving, and I’m being robbed of what little insufficiency I have for the meager portion they begrudgingly offer me. And it tells me, we have an abundance, but we’re unwilling to share, or lift a finger to help another human being to feel loved. The only thing that shouldn’t be treated cheaply is life, and we depreciate that worse than used car dealers. Even if I wanted to go, I would not be able to afford to go to a Super Bowl. Those tickets, for a crappy seat in a crappy section of a crappy stadium, are exwhorebitantly priced for those rabid, or rich, enough to want to go. Yeah I misspelled it on purpose, it’s a joke. Everything in demand is exwhorebitantly priced and the way to get what you want when you want it is to be one. Or pay one. Or both. And you’ll be just as dissatisfied when the moment, La petite mort, is over and your brief satisfied feelings go away, because it’s temporary.
And I am temporary, too.
And I am nothingness, and meaningless and futility, while I chase the pretty, white clouds of my insignificant and unsubstantial dreams and wish for things that will never be. My work will never be appreciated (until I’m not doing it, or until I’m dead), youth cannot be captured, human nature will not change, and why should I think that what I want should matter? I’m “the eye of man” above. I’m never satisfied and I’m afraid I’ll never be satisfied. We race headlong toward death and the grave and most never realize it because their minds are clouded or distracted with these dreams.
You’re busy chasing your own meaning, and I honestly hope you find it.
I’ve found my own nothingness and I’m not even a Buddhist. The fact that I’m not a Buddhist has kept me alive physically. If I were here as a Buddhist and I could find a non-violent way to go, I’d end it and feel perfect. Then I’d come back as a cockroach or a dung beetle because that’s just how it goes. Don’t judge. It’s just, I’m emotionally empty. I’m psychologically a very dirty, very dry martini that leaves the consumer feeling a little more tainted, a little more thirsty for a better, more quenching drink. And I feel, spiritually, like nothing. I’m almost completely dissatisfied. I want so much more, because clearly, I’m just as selfish as everyone else, but I don’t have the power to exact the toll I want. I’m savage. And a savage without teeth is nothing. I hold the hope of eternity, I don’t want to do any harm to any others, which is why I can’t deliberately do anything harmful to myself. The message of hope in eternity is true. But I don’t hold any hope for myself in this present nothingness. It’s just the cycle again. Probably.
If I had any motivation I’d figure out how everyone else is so successful at the taking game, and I’d be this dangerous:
But I don’t. I almost wish I could. Almost.
I’ve realized my nothingness, and even my desire for nothingness amounts to nothing.
And yeah, I’ll be buying the Valentine’s chocolate now that it’s 75% off, and the stores will make a fair profit instead of an outrageous one. Unless Mrs M. tells me not to. I bet she does, because what I want is meaningless nothingness compared to what Mrs. M. wants, so what I want is what she tells me she wants, and if she wants nothing, that’s what I’ll buy. Because she’s everything I want, and I do everything inadequately, imperfectly, or incorrectly, in my pursuit of her heart.
Mrs. M. Bless her heart. She gave me the biggest card I’ve ever seen for Valentine’s day, and I gave her a stupid Goodwill book. I’m not going to tell her where it’s from. She tries so hard to tell me I’m a success, for her, and everything I hear around me, including often enough things she says, tells me the opposite. If she reads the book and really understands it, it will tell her 1) to love herself because she’s perfection, and 2) to love herself because she’s perfection to me. Those two things are very different.
She pushes me so hard, I hate it. I love her because she believes in me, but I hate the way she pushes because I can’t do what she wants well enough in spite of her faith. She’s my “ezer kenegdo” in the Hebrew. One study says it perfectly: “In Genesis 2:18, God calls woman an ezer kenegdo, a helper against him.'” Which means she’s first a helper and second she’s against me. I’m completed by her. We’re perfectly mismatched. And I crave her. I don’t want her to be “against me” in an adversarial sense, because it would kill me and make me feel even less. I want her to be “against me,” because she’s perfect when she’s next to me. Insert stereotypical silly song here:
It’s not worship. It’s close to it, but it’s not. And because creation and my mind are all marred, like chipped and cracking plates, and rusting stainless steel, no matter what she says to me I’ll always hear something else. You know when you drop a glass or a plate and you wait for that shattery sound that says it’s broken beyond repair? I either hear the sound, or feel the grim waiting suspense, all the time. And it makes me just want to stay in bed. The shit tide is high and lapping at the doorway, and couldn’t have chosen a worse time to knock at the door like some hellish, loud, trebuchet breaking my life down one boulder at a time.
Maybe there will be more wine and some chocolate when I get home. Those two things will tell me, at least temporarily, like a great dinner meal, that I have enough.
That I am loved.
If I’ll listen.