Where I Walk

I walk around in a daze 24 hours a day. I am always painfully aware of the fact that everything I touch and see and feel is nothing but illusion. A beautiful and useful illusion, but illusion nonetheless.

I rouse myself from sleep, blankly looking at the clock and trying to understand if it has any real significance. It does not. But, I must get up for work anyway. I throw on what I consider “business casual” clothing, which means to me: not jeans, not a shirt that says, “Eat beaver.” A little personal hygiene to further please my masters and I am out the door.

I like my car. It is solid to the touch and moves when instructed. But, I know that what it is to me is not real. It is just an object, a fact that I am (as is everyone) incapable of grasping. In my mind this maroon object of pollution and possible death, floods my subconscious with memories past. Suddenly, yet covertly, bubbling under sentience, this object is something I am attached and cling to. And yet…I am aware of my ignorance, which is what probably causes the nausea.

I am not a frail or weak person by any means, but I am always sick. I start the car and wonder, briefly, if today I will be able to concentrate on the radio or if I will drift into random, empty thoughts or if I will meditate as I drive. Other people I see as I travel to work seem blithely careening down the highway at 70 mph in an object that weighs over 2,000 pounds.

Like a movie in my head, I imagine sudden stops and turns and mayhem and crushed plastic and metal. I hope I die if I am seriously involved; I do not wish to die really. I just do not wish to get critically or permanently maimed more. I am a good driver, though maybe a little too fast. Everything may be an illusion, but it is beautiful and I like it.

Work is challenging. I have to stay awake and able to speak and read clearly. Sometimes that is hard, not because I am hungover or intoxicated, but because sometimes speaking seems useless. The worker bee does not often get to talk about things that matter to him. They may be unimportant in the grand scheme, but he is a being. A oneness with instincts and desires, right?

I have no A/C in that car. After driving home through rush hour in 90+ degree weather, I am often not in a very jumping jack happy sort of mood. I cook dinner for me and 2 roommates, sometimes 3. I do it because we all need to eat. It pleases me to provide them with it. Something very primitive in me knows that he who can provide sustenance to others is god. They eat. They know it pleases me to be thanked, even if the food was not great. My ego is boosted.

I spend the rest of my day and night escaping. Drooling at the idiot box. Giving myself carpal tunnel sitting at this infernal machine of torture and temptation. Dissecting Tool for the thousandth time. A book. Drugs. Booze. Talking politics at the pub. Whatever, it is all the same. Escape.

Escape from the maddening, sickening knowledge that everything is pointless. No reason to get all worked up over the subject, so just forget it, put it in the back of the mind. I am too tired and I care too little to do anything that might actually improve my perception of my own existence. But what to choose from the buffet? Does it really matter? I have been choosing all my life and everything seems to taste the same. Somebody shoot the chef who cooked this crap.

posted by Diogenes on Wednesday, November 15, 2006