I agree with you that much of creation appears to be haphazard and accidental. I can certainly appreciate design in life forms, however, where the intricacies are astonishing; but in the vast universe and even in earthly landscapes I don't see it: it all looks to me like a pile of rubble. Beauty comes through anyway, but mostly it appears like a lot of tumble-down ruins. I think it was C.S. Lewis who first brought this to my attention, but I don't remember where or his exact words, something about how creation looks like a great thing gone bad. That is how it looks to me. Eventually I understood it all in terms of the Fall.
Good story, Robin. I always enjoy your writing, and you made a good case for nihilism. I happen to know that everything that happens is not an accident but I understand how it looks that way.
I think RAZD is right, the other option is just living or just not thinking about it much.
I don't remember giving much thought to purpose in my life BC. There were things I liked to do and I tried to do them, and things I didn't like to do and I tried to avoid them, and things I knew I must do so I did them, and that was about it for purpose. Just following one's own inclinations isn't exactly finding a purpose is it? Or is it? Meaning is another thing, however. I did want meaning and couldn't find any of that either.
Thank you, Parasomnium, I also appreciate your writing, and I'm thoroughly smitten with Robin's writing. Another one here whose writing grabs my attention is Omnivorous. It makes it worth it to take some time crafting sentences knowing there are people around who are sensitive to such things. It's true, though, you can make something trivial sound important if you express it elegantly.
I wish I didn't laugh at remarks like this. But it is funny. Life is purposeless, so we make our own purposes and that way we're authentic, but we still need to render ourselves unconscious to tolerate it.
Reading your thoughts always makes me so happy that God is an object, a separate personality who loves and can be loved by a subject, and that he's promised us an eternal existence with our souls or is-ness intact and able to love him for that eternity.
There's just no way that most human beings can grasp such ideas as you are trying to convey, and even less that we can be attracted to such ideas that imply personal dissolution. Even if it were the truth it isn't a truth I could be happy about. I don't understand your attraction to it at all.
But people don't analyze it like this, lfen. We're simply all aware of being a consciousness or self, and we recognize it in others. We may recognize something lesser but somewhat similar in some animals but it's not really relevant to the main idea, which is human consciousness, or soul, or self, or mind or being etc. We all know what it is. We all recognize it. We know what we mean. What's the need for a model? Or a theory of its origin?
The most interesting thing about it, I think, is the awareness of it as a phenomenon, that may suddenly come over one, of being so utterly locked within this peculiar consciousness that is me, and unable to access other consciousnesses, having to know them only through complicated communications and never from the inside-out as we know ourselves. And how our consciousness never leaves but other consciousnesses float in and out of our awareness of them. Sometimes that sense of being so enclosed in this so very specific strangeness of my I-ness can give me chills, make my hair stand on end. It's so ODD my being me and nobody else, only once in the entire history of the world and never again. WHAT IS IT? I want to know. Not how it got here. Not how it connects to physical things. But, what, IN ITSELF, is it?
This thing I'm looking at in the mirror is not dead. It's just not me.
OK, now I get it. Sort of. In my case it's probably just the melancholy fact of aging, though you may mean something more existential about it. Yes, that's definitely not me in the mirror NOW. I was willing to own her up to, oh, maybe twenty years ago.
Have to add that what I was talking about, contemplating the I -- not looking in the mirror, which is more the "me" I think -- isn't spooky because it isn't me, it's definitely me, or rather I, and maybe it's spooky because it IS I.
I've been trying to recreate that experience and haven't been able to. I did get into it briefly yesterday. That's what made me aware of the spookiness of it.
Just tried it again. The late afternoon sun on the desk, dappled sun because of all the trees out the window, creates an aching feeling for some reason, a sort of sadness. Existential sadness I want to say. I've noticed this phenomenon many times, simple natural phenomena provoking such specific feelings. It seems to make no sense. There's no content to it, but the feeling is there. Just from the sunlight, nothing else. I look at the sunlight, the feeling is there; I look away, the feeling goes away. So strange. Anyway, I stopped and tried to look at the I that is experiencing that aching feeling. And I got a little feeling of the spookiness.
But I still can't say any better why or what it is.