It is impossible to see just how the collective could guide the whole of humanity to live life in balance—and this leaves my soul on “empty”.
I don’t want to do life any more. It’s not that I don’t like life, what life is in its positive aspects and its adventure, it’s just that I am empty of hope about its continuing reality.
Its dream is empty, other than the cycle of death—that meaning somehow is not acceptable.
What has gone wrong is that life is not interested in me or my gratification. I am literally just as the leaves in the wind—coming apart and reentering the world of lifeless matter. Life struggles to bring matter together, an interesting thing in itself—as it succeeds in relating to a self and then borrows time until its death. Round and round life goes with only organic memory seeking to know and use its neighbor for its nourishing and existing.
No wonder God was invented. Is there something common in this mystery, something needed to inspire the effort and tolerance to endure?
Could it be that life without a dream would die if it only had reality?
Do I need fantasy or belief in order to exist?
As I contemplate death, my death, I ask . . . “Are there living things that can last in understanding?” As I look at the mess of my own dying, mostly what I see is just that—a mess.
I am confused, separated and lost, and so would like to leave the show. But there is the feeling that I am abandoning some kind of responsibility and dumping it on those who are a part of my living. I feel I will be leaving my mess behind for others to deal with— which is true—as I escape the burden of awareness and consciousness when I am gone. I feel like I am abandoning meaning and purpose and leaving all the dreaming for the living to continue to figure out.
How do we separate those who could make a difference from those who cannot escape the animal beings we are?
I kind of feel like death is future time and the present is the past.