A Kind of Coming Out.

I’ve lived in my present house for more than fourteen years. That’s the longest by far that I have ever lived at one address. And they’ve been troubled years in which depression, anxiety, desperation and various other forms of malaise have never been far beneath the surface, and have often been the predominant feature of the daily round.

The move to this house switched my emotional baseline from positive to negative. Positive people try to see the best in others; they ride the difficulties and push through adversity with a strong heart. Negative people are ever ready to see the worst in people; they’re brought to their knees by difficulties and do their best to hide from adversity. I decline to accept that one is right and the other wrong; they’re just different forms of experience and response. What I would be foolish to deny is that positive people are generally happy, while negative people generally aren’t.

And yet, on an uncharacteristically positive note, I think it’s true to say that I’ve probably learned more about life and the human condition over the last fourteen years than in any previous fourteen. And I’ve changed a lot in the process. I’m tempted to suggest that I might even have become a better person.

So the question which presents itself is this: Does the process of learning and becoming a better person have any value, since all we do in the end is die? Do we take our learning and improved proclivities with us into the undiscovered country? Do we build on them through successive lifetimes? Is this what being an ‘old soul’ is all about? Is this the stuff of which wisdom is made, and does that wisdom prove useful in the future? Does it even improve our lot in the final analysis, whatever the final analysis might be?

I don’t see how you can begin to address that question unless you truly know whether life has a purpose and, if so, what that purpose is. I don’t see how anybody can know, whether they seek the answer through religion, philosophy or science. I’ve tried all three and always ended up unconvinced.

All this might be complete balderdash, of course. It could be that something is amiss in my brain, or it could be that I have a malfunctioning gene, or it could be that my fractured childhood produced a constant drip of slimy black stuff which won’t stop dripping, or it could be that this house is simply an unhappy house. There are those who believe in such a phenomenon, just as there are those who believe in the dark night of the soul.

Meanwhile, I’m still conscious and still breathing. And as long as that situation prevails I shall continue to perceive life as my nature determines. And maybe I’ll be a happier person when I arrive at the terminus, or maybe I won’t. For now, life is a matter of getting through the days. And this post is really opening up, isn’t it?

I’m going to finish watching The Count of Monte Cristo now. I don’t really see the point, but it’s better than sitting alone and in silence while feeling disinclined to meditate.