In a moment of madness, I wrote what is effectively an ‘authors note’ to a book that has yet to even be completed or published and probably never will be. Mostly, because I was bored, but also for self-motivation. Please see below for what ended up being a poorly conceived rant, and possibly a course of therapy.
There is a bizarre moment (often multiple moments – sometimes a continuous never ending moment) that all people experience in their lives. That is the what’s the point moment. Of course the question is in itself a pointless one, as it doesn’t really have any meaning behind it, no one is quite sure what they are in fact asking, but they ask it nonetheless. It’s like when people feel the urge to buy a chaise longue, they don’t quite know what they are, but feel they need one in their lives.
What is the point? Well, ultimately there is none. What’s the meaning to life? There is none and there never was. It’s a uniquely human trait to assume there needs to be a meaning to all things. If there was meaning, if there was a purpose or any semblance of order to the universe we wouldn’t have figures like Donald Trump. The world awaits the moment where this strange lump of skin and bigotry drops the façade and laughs. We await the moment this vile sack of shit grins and says “Had you all going for a moment there.”
The only point to our fleeting, unimportant little lives is that we do something worthwhile whilst we can.
But what is worthwhile?
Olympic athletes are widely regarded as having ‘done something’ with their lives and made ‘great achievements’, but ultimately all they have done is run round in circles for a bit. They’ve trained for years simply to return to where they started. There’s not even a lemon meringue pie at the end.
Actors are held in fairly high esteem, as they prance about pretending to be other people, mostly people with superpowers these days. Exercise in pointlessness really.
Authors. The written word is regarded as one of the pillars that hold up human civilisation, but do authors not just sit about making shit up? Some times entertaining shit, sometimes thoughtful shit. A lot of the time shit shit. The shittest shit anyone could waste their time doing. The entire teen’s fiction section in any bookshop is largely (and irresponsibly) a massive toilet in which various people are invited to defecate on mass. Endless poorly conceived angst ridden dystopian series in which ‘young adults’ rail against unbelievable figures of authority, but ultimately feel that the question “does the really attractive boy/girl” like me is more important than overthrowing tyranny. The most on the nose metaphor for puberty ever. Very on the nose.
But… it is all worthwhile. All of it, for those involved. For those that partake. Anything that makes you feel. Anything that makes being alive feel like an endeavour worth pursuing, is worthwhile.
Was there any point to this?
Was it worthwhile?
Of course not.
I’m not sure I understand the question.