I read them, you know, I do. Lots of them. It’s like sitting
on a chair in front of a stage watching a procession of Karl Pilkingtons saying
their piece and then asking ‘what did you think of that?’ And I want to tell
them, honestly and in well ordered English, precisely what I thought of that.
Only I mustn’t because I’m trying to be a better person. And I don’t want to
hurt or insult people anyway (apart from the likes of Trump and the other
psychopaths running the world who exempt me from the karmic process because
they’re not really people in the accepted sense of the word.) Hurting and
insulting people is not what you do when you’re trying to be a better person.
So I stay quiet, and I congratulate myself for staying
quiet, and then I remonstrate with myself because self-congratulation is yet
another form of ego-projection, but I grudgingly accept it because it does at
least ameliorate the frustration.
And then I go off onto one of my ‘what’s it all about?’
trips, in which I face the unanswerable question of whether this life is all
there is, or whether it’s only a small part of a much larger existence. Because
if there’s nothing beyond this pathetically short span of life I see slowly fading
in the mirror, it really doesn’t matter a damn what I do. But that’s a recipe
for anarchy, and anarchy can be pretty uncomfortable, which is perhaps why
humans invented God and religion. Or perhaps they didn’t.
The search goes on. No gurus please.
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