(Fuck, he’s talking to the blog again)
It’s so much easier to pretend that nothing has meaning, nothing is scary, everything is just another event in a long procession and nothing ever really changes, that assigning great significance to anything is just troublesome.
But I’m about to load up a backpack and not come home for 9 months. I feel like this matters. It feels like a big deal, awaiting the big stupid treatment I go read in a notebook years later and cringe.
I think that’s why I don’t do that anymore. Maybe that’s a bad excuse.
I feel like I’m doing this to run from something, because I don’t feel like I have a home. I don’t really have a circle of friends at all, I think I’m probably about to break up with my girlfriend, I hate everything and everyone and I don’t think anybody is doing anything right, certainly not myself, and I don’t have any qualms about moving anywhere to do anything, not because of curiosity but because of apathy.
Writing though. I’ve gotten good at that for damn sure. That feels nice, for whatever it’s worth, and I’m afraid that’s nothing.
I’ve started tuning out all optimists. In fact I’ve become repulsed by them. Them and anyone who thinks they have an answer, one I’d see if I just spent more time studying, one that boils down to faith in something that always works and is predictable.
Actually in that last bit I’m just talking about libertarians, who seem to be getting louder and more obnoxious, but they’re just a particularly good example of the sort of thing I mean.
That’s not true either. Some of my acquaintances are smart enough to know better but have no sense of urgency about the world past something they just read or heard about in class.
I have some ideas, definitely based on the media I’ve been consuming lately, so I guess I shouldn’t be such a hypocrite.
The arc of history is long and my contribution is probably meaningless.
There is no history, there is only the past.
History doesn’t repeat itself and historical novelty is emerging now.
Consciousness is not an emergent property of existence, and if it is, the human race is doomed.
The human race is doomed.
The world has always been this urgent and on the brink of collapse, I’m just noticing it more now.
The only chance my species has is to leave the planet.
Having kids is probably selfish.
None of us knows why we’re on the treadmill.
When robots start taking all of our jobs we’ll really have to ask ourselves why we ever bothered.
That’s all I got.