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What is the Meaning of Life?

May 11, 2012

Techie act of the day: Here’s something I wrote on my phone in Evernote and copypasta-ed in and edited and posted and OVERLOAD OF ANDS MAY RESULT IN BRAIN IMPLOSION AND YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED AND bllurfpt.

Emo title aside, here it is:

So I was thinking about the guy who bought his own island and made it into paradise on earth. Then I realized that money really is the root of all evil.

Well it sure isn’t the root of all good.

Somebody on the Youtube comments area (yes, I read the comments. I know. I’m Pandora. The evil demon spirits have been released and the world will never know peace.) … … So! Somebody on the Youtube comments area asked “How does he live without money?”

What a stupid question.

What is the meaning of life anyway? What do you need to sustain yourself as a living, breathing human being in, as it were, the pursuit of happiness?

To eat, shit, sleep, fuck and not suffer (aka be entertained). To be fair, the last two are about the same. No matter.

Money doesn’t come into the equation, except to facilitate all that. No, money is not strictly required in any of those things, except the bit where you want to wipe your arse.

That guy is living the life I want to live. And that makes me kind of mad because I’m not living that life. Mad. Frothing, really. Not really. But.

You know, I read a great line in a manga once. A young lady asked, looking at a (real emo) teenage girl, “where is all that anger I once had?” My anger is mostly gone, I think. Or only hiding. But so is all my deep thought. Maybe it’s hiding too. Or maybe it’s just something kids can do. Suddenly wonder about all the dead creatures below our feet. No, I wasn’t a very happy teenager. But as the late Sendak said, we romanticize childhood, in our memories happier than it really was.

I remember, but have lost, the consuming rage of childhood. Yep, consuming rage, the sort that makes you bite your brother and refuse to apologize afterwards. Oddly I miss it. Not the biting. That’s unhygienic. But adults who experience this sort of rage are often referred to padded rooms. Because adults can be more destructive? I don’t know.

It’s the same kind of consuming emotion (consumption?) in which children can have the time of their live at the KLCC playground (actually just looking at that place is still exciting to me… but alas, I am not a midget). All consuming fun. I mean, I have fun playing my (nerdy card)games et cetera, but always there is a sensation of a little ball with eyes, observing somewhere above or  behind me. Detachment. Tiffany Aching (actually, Terry Pratchett), calls it Second Thoughts, but maybe it’s just… maturity? That’s not a good word. Maybe it’s just that adult in everybody, standing outside our bodies and wondering prissily when this will be over.

As usual, the point has been thoroughly missed. One day I should sit down and write a proper essay, with a beginning, middle and end. Until then, you could always try eye drops.


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