Climbing Down the Existential Ladder.

I permitted myself the indulgence of having breakfast in bed this morning, and when I’d finished I began to muse on the different ethnicities which make up the bedrock of native European peoples. I wondered how ethnicity had become established in the first place, and how mixed it had become even before further migration came along to stir the soup in later millennia.

And that brought me back around a neat little curve to the question of how Europeans came to be here initially. Did they come from Africa and turn pale with the cold, or didn’t they? And that led me onto the question of how modern humans came to be here on the planet at all (you know, the theory of evolution vs the notion of divine – or could that be alien? – plantation.) I favoured evolution, but it obviously didn’t stop there because the question of how the first humanoids came into being cropped up next, closely followed by the question of how anything at all came into being.

And that was when the musing took on an existential air, because at some point I began to wonder whether any of this mattered. But what does ‘matter’ mean in that context, I thought? Is there any such thing as mattering and not mattering? Well, now we’re getting caught up in semantics of language, so let’s drop that one for the time being. But the question remained: Do some things matter more than others? Does everything matter equally? Does nothing matter at all? How the hell is anybody supposed to come up with an answer to that one, apart from assuming that priority in the matter of mattering comes down more to perception than logic, and that perception is a function of consciousness? OK, so let’s think about consciousness.

‘Am I nothing except my consciousness?’ was my next question. Is everything else about ‘me’ an irrelevant or illusory add-on? If so, would it mean that I don’t really exist in any meaningful sense. (But what does ‘meaningful’ mean? The maze is becoming more tortuous.)

Ah, but I used the word ‘exist.’ So what does ‘existence’ mean and is it real? Should I presume that because I perceive something it must exist? What about the black dog which leapt out of the bedroom wall heading in my direction a short while before I received my cancer diagnosis? I have a favourite psychological theory for that one, but I still perceived it so did it exist at some level? Is it simply a case of ‘I am possessed of self-perception, and so I must exist?' Or to put it another way, as somebody famous already did, ‘I think therefore I am.’ The notion seemed fragile; it didn’t go deep enough.

There was more, and eventually I realised that I had reached the bottom rung of the ladder of existential enquiry, and that beneath me was impenetrable darkness. I wondered whether the darkness contained oblivion or enlightenment, but there was no way of knowing because I was attached to the ladder.

I decided there was only one conclusion to be drawn from all this (and I’m only giving you half of it; I’ve forgotten the rest.) It is simply: ‘I know nothing, and neither does anybody else.’ It also occurred to me that having breakfast in bed is maybe not such a good idea. I only do it to put off the moment when I have to get up properly, get dressed and face what appears to be another dolorous day to my (albeit limited) perception.

And if there are any self-styled gurus reading this, I expect they will be shaking their heads, tutting loudly, and exclaiming inwardly: ‘This man is overthinking.’ (I’ve noticed that ‘overthinking’ is one of the current buzz words among those who believe themselves blessed with a superior understanding of what it’s all about.) ‘He should not overthink, he should meditate instead. Meditation is the opposite of thinking, and better for mental wellbeing.’ Well, there you are.

I did try meditating at one time in my life, you know. I couldn’t do it because one of two things always happened. Either I would find my consciousness taking part in some sort of unprepared activity (like flying through a subterranean cavern, or standing on a low roof about to address an assembled group of people, or sometimes I would see clear images of faces projected on the back of my closed eyelids), or I would simply fall asleep.

Oh dear, I suppose I should close this now. Sorry for the ramble; it just wanted to come out for some reason. But just to finish on a more reliable note, I might add that the wheat standing proud in the Shire’s fields is almost ripe, but I don’t know whether the barley has been harvested yet because I haven’t been around that way for a few days. And I keep on being presented with the notion that I shall never see the Lady B again. If correct, it’s perfectly fine as long as whatever roles were being played have been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. It probably isn’t correct; it’s probably just me being silly as usual.

Edited to add 8th June 2023.

I still haven't seen the Lady B since I wrote this.