This is not about depression. This is not about suicide. This is not about being ungrateful for the blessing of life. This is simply an over reaching ambition. This is desire for beyond. A dream. A fantasy?
I want to leave this place more than I have ever wanted to die. It might be about my distorted perception of this place. But it also might be that I have wondered too long about nonexistence. What does it feel like? Is there any feeling then?
Existence is not the answer but not a pleasant question either. Maybe nonexistence is as beautiful as existence. No one knows. The unknown is not necessarily disgraceful or dangerous. The unknown is not necessarily glorious or graceful. No one knows. I am willing to be the first to know. I am willing.
Some believe in the duality of our existence, to have a body and a soul. I agree. Some believe the soul is immortal. I agree but I wonder..
Does immortality of the soul mean never to die or to always have been and to always will be? I like to think it’s the latter. Imagine our souls being immortal in the sense of infinity. We have always been here and we will always be. We’re as old as the notion of existence, as old as the birth of the universe, as old as Time. This would mean that our physical existence in our imprisoning bodies is merely a transient station of our immortality. Our souls are free, dancing around in the universe, then two people, impetuously in love, decide to cage in one of these souls in a body, we live and endure, then we’re off again, free in the universe.
But I can’t stand my ignominious body. I can’t stand this shabby station. I want to leave this place more than I ever wanted to die.
The dilemma is that once you’re caged in, you’re inherently hosting the parasitical Stockholm syndrome. Our corporeal prison captivates our sanity and sentimentality that the idea of death or departure frightens us out of our minds. We are in love with our captors; we are one with our masters. Of course, the illness spared no one and I am delirious. I am fighting against myself but my immunity is not made for battling such disease. Yet I will fight on. On.
Sometimes artists paint existential ache. Clint Mansell did. Listen.