Like I said the other day, I'm constantly hunting for methods to create purpose (i.e. meaning) in my life. Methods to the madness. Better yet, methods to the meaninglessness. I firmly believe that I create the meaning in my life. But creation is irrational and exploratory not logical and systematic. In other words, I don't know what I'm thinking when I create meaning. I kind of dick around until something fits (what a fantastically inappropriate way of saying that; so inappropriate, I can't bring myself to delete it).
So I get frustrated. Nothing except my daughter adequately fits a satisfactory sense of purpose in my life. Much comes close, but there is always some microscopic failure that I cannot articulate. I try and fail. I try. And fail. However, no matter how many times I fail, I can't stop. I require meaning like I require air.
There is a sadistic piece of me, albeit barely perceptible, that unconsciously fantasizes about the demise of meaning in my life. It's like the itch you get in your feet when standing on a ledge: what if I jumped? What would really happen? The irrational (stronger) part of my brain insists on the existence of meaning. The logical (weaker) part of my brain knows meaning is just a conglomerate of distinct fragments of bullshit glued together on a background of nothingness in my brain. My life will eventually end in meaninglessness. Any thoughts of immortality are a joke. (What do you think about your great grandparents? Probably don't make a meaningful impact on your daily life.) So why struggle with it so much now? Why cling to the impossible?
I do not want to lose that which is meaningful in my life (see Babies and Suicide). I wonder if there is something in between? An intensity of being. An existence with an imperceptible self. A purposeless now. I wonder if there is a way to be a rock.
