Lately I’ve been feeling a deep disgust for things that once pleased me.
I no longer feel affection for places I once loved. I no longer feel closeness or connection to friends I once couldn’t be without. I no longer take pleasure in food, wine, or song. And hopes of finding God among the tangled wreckage of the industrial age only come to despair. To me, nothing strikes at the heart of hope for a loving god more than the very fact of our own existence.
With it, all tender feelings, all joys, all hopes, are also condensing into nothingness. I can feel the last embers of love and joy going out and all I can say is “well, that’s life.”
The nihilism and cynicism I have kept at bay for nearly three decades has begun creeping in whether I want it or not, and I find no comfort in existentialism even though it seems to be the only philosophy that acknowledges nihilism as anything more than an aberration. I find Camus and Sartre’s attempts to create a coherent philosophy with no foundation to be risible and tragicomic, like watching a newly-neutered dog on top of a bitch in heat. They thrust so eagerly at what they want but ultimately, they can’t complete the act. And as for Nietszche, his is a protean well of the preposterous with a few good points floating here and there.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Buddha had been working class instead of a bourgeois, chasing enlightenment as a surrogate activity. I sometimes wonder if the Gnostic sect of Christianity wasn’t doomed to fail in favor of the simplistic tautologies taught in Rome. I sometimes wonder if we inherit anything from our past lives except memories, pain, and regrets.
My heart is emptying rapidly, and I strangely find it hard to care. The only pain that seems real is mine, and even that is fading away as I begin to realize the stupidity of a meaningful life in a universe with no meaning.