At the age of eight, I decided I wanted a house. A big one. With a pool. Exquisite, enchanting, and most of all, expensive.
At the age of eight, I decided I wanted to become a lawyer.
It took two years for me to realise I really, really did not want to become a lawyer.
Why? I suppose it all started when I read my last Percy Jackson book. Faced with an impending shortage of gratification, I decided I was too old for such meaningless fodder and looked at what the big kids, the 12-year-olds, were reading. Well, uh… Upon realising Mr. Jackson’s splash into the ocean of literature had reeled in many far beyond my age, I decided to visit an actual library instead, with the fabled scrolls under Adult Fiction. In the arrogance of my premature reasoning, I had abandoned Percy Jackson, and now I had to look smart! Children’s Fiction!? What was I, a child? No! Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations? Yes, please! With a side of Camus, my good sir.
Meditations found its way into the book return the next day, as did another four of similar nature. The purge took all but a book by the name of The Alchemist. It was a unique book for me at the time. It wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, but it worked. I suppose it was meant for both the adult I was pretending to be and the child I was. The Alchemist is a story of transformation, the protagonist’s development from the pursuit of a material treasure buried beneath the Egyptian pyramids to the pursuit of fulfilment.
“Hmm, you know, I’d kinda like that as well”
My goals were too expensive, too difficult. Look at real estate these days! Too much effort. I wanted to want something easier. Fulfilment? I liked that. It was simple, it was sapient, it was perfect! But of course, I had to know more.
And here was the moment when little me was introduced to the concept of living as opposed to simply existing. An introduction to the philosophies of life. I actually started to ask myself questions about my pursuits. How will I get it? Why do I want it? What will I do with it? It was considerably difficult to answer these questions. I suppose I never asked, “Do I want what I think I want?”
The path
When the Founding Fathers wrote the American Declaration of Independence and declared the right to the pursuit of happiness as an inalienable human right, they should really have put in a footnote with instructions on just how one might go about practising this right. Even back in ‘76, we knew this was a tough problem. They dispensed the right to life and liberty, but not happiness, only the pursuit of it. Go figure that one out yourself kiddo.
There are a lot of people who preach about living a fulfilling life. They all seem to have different methods though. Some say buy land and build a cabin and live in solitude, some say get rich, some say travel the world. So how do you do it? It doesn’t seem that straightforward. And I wonder, when these people post their videos, write their blogs, publish their books telling you how to be happy, are they happy? I don’t particularly think so. Answers tend to be in obvious places, but the ones I seek are not found in a cabin in a forest.
Before Ikigai became trendy, there was another similar concept by the name of eudaimonia. It talks about a general state of human flourishing. I suppose we tend to romanticise complexity. Happiness is too simple a life goal. A nice, elaborate Greek word is much more befitting for the pedestal of ‘My Life Goal’. Gravitas will be my ruin. And so eudaimonia became my goal. And the eudaimonia I seeked was not to be found in a mansion.
You are nothing. We are nothing.
I enjoy looking at people. Not in a weird way. But to think of what they are, what they do, what they want. Who are you? How does your brain think? What will you do? Why will you do it? People speak of all these fancy goals. I want to go to the US to study computing, I want to be rich, I want to do something with my life. Then they say they want a legacy, they want to be remembered. They want to exist for longer than the momentary blip mortality confines them to. Everyone seems so, well, boring. Just living. Existing. Trudging along with no real end in sight. Making up these imaginary carrots to declare a purpose.
You think you’re special, you’re unique? You don’t even know what you want to do. You literally exist on timetables made by some grungy admin employee hunched over an Excel sheet deciding when you do Math and when you go and eat from your grand selection of 10 food stalls. You have no control. Inconsequential. Boring. Pathetic.
Then there’s all that nihilism rubbish as well. I won’t talk about all the “oh, look at the size of the universe” stuff. You don’t care that the M537A Betelpeas Jigglywatt Cluster is how many ever trillion times bigger than you could imagine. Instead, try a very simple exercise. Close your eyes.
Why are you still reading this? Fine, carry on then. Stubborn little rascal.
Now, close your eyes! Count to one.
“One”
Infinity has happened.
Without you.
Do you see now? Do you accept your insignificance? No? Oh.
Wow, I really shouldn’t be talking as if I understand this. The most boring person I’ve met is me. Because I am exactly what I find boring about others. And I know it is completely true for me. No possibility of illusions. I love ranting about your insignificance because I then don’t have to think about mine. And so I compensate. By pursuing pursuits. And insulting you, dear reader.
So you are nothing. How could nothing find meaning? You and I will never do something significant enough to justify the fact that we are a culmination of atoms and chance, shaped by aeons. Look at what has gone into making us, the star that died for us, the perfection of the environment that developed us. How are you special enough to deserve that? The universe operates on a scale too complex for us to be the final product. You are meaningless, you are nothing. A side effect of something more.
And you dare ask for a side of happiness.
Desire
“Why do you care?” I really like that question. It’s something I learnt in debating, a rude, pragmatic answer to the pathos and assertions so often used in daily life. Perhaps it's just because I’m rude and arrogant. Maybe I am still defined by my contrarianism. But it sure is effective. It makes you think doesn’t it? We like to care about things simply because they are “important”. The reason behind their importance being a cyclical explanation.
Why do I care then? Why does that house matter then? Honestly, I don’t know. But it sure does make me feel better to think about this question. I feel like I will eventually know the answer. I probably won’t though.
The pursuit of the pursuit of happiness is a tough one. I know I want my life goal to be eudaimonia. But I don’t know how to change my subconscious desires. I contort my aspirations to make myself feel like I am pursuing eudaimonia. That house serves to make me happy! Does it? I don’t know what I have fooled myself into believing.
- Jacques Lacan
My subconscious is a bad person. He makes me do things without asking me if I want to want to do them. Manipulative little rascal. Doesn’t shut up about it either. This would be fine, except for his tendencies to be a blithering idiot. This power dynamic is unfair! I want control. I want to shape what shapes me. But I cannot. And that is sad.
Is it?
If only I could choose what to desire. Perhaps I wouldn’t desire dumb things. The thing is, I don’t want to make myself sacrifice anything. Desire is tearing a hole in me and telling myself to go and fill it up. So much effort! I would simply leave myself as is. So it’s desire dumb stuff or desire nothing? The only way to conquer my subconscious is to burn it down?
Huh.
Wow, this is hard. Wasn’t this supposed to make it easier?
Oh no. This isn’t making it easier. But I’ve done everything. I read the literature! I decided what I wanted to desire! I know what I want to want! Why do I still want that house? Sigh. Did I really just realise that I don’t want to control what I want? Well this sucks. I guess I’m still a kid pretending to be an adult. Square one.
There was supposed to be meaning to the story, but I am now unsure of what it is. The beautiful thing about morals is that they don't need to actually be shown by a story. Audiences will accept anything tangentially related.. Therefore, the moral is now that Percy Jackson is the sole defender of blissful ignorance. Oh well. Math starts soon. Have a nice life.
