Achievement is pointless. So is life. The universe doesn’t care what happens to any of us. We only matter to each other. We only have meaning for our lives because we choose to make meaning. That’s what human beings do: make meaning.
Life is a gift. Really, it’s the only gift we have. We are blessed with consciousness. We can be aware of ourselves. We can ask for meaning. As far as I can tell, that’s pretty rare in the universe. So I think we, who have life and consciousness; we, who can actually conceive of the idea of achievement; are pretty lucky.
So, for the time we are lucky enough to be alive and to be aware of our existence, we should enjoy it, if we can. I mean, we could always throw life back, like catch and release fishing. We can turn down the gift, or just throw it away. Suicide is an option.
But suicide, it seems to me, is a last resort for getting rid of deep, endless pain. However, even then, the idea of giving up the pain, if you share it with someone else who feels as you do, often seems absurd. Humorous, even. I mean, what are you going to do? Take a few extra pills? Jump off a building? Put a gun to your head?
Or maybe you could blow up a building on top of yourself. Or step in front of a garbage truck. No matter what you think of, it’s pretty silly. Funny even. Uproariously funny. I nearly laughed myself to death one night, discussing means of suicide with a friend who was ready to go with me. At least, I was trying to talk her into it. She had some silly idea that it would hurt her children if she checked out by her own hand.
Good times, I tell you! Good times!
It’s hard to take yourself seriously, I think. It’s hard for me to take myself very seriously, having contemplated suicide so seriously. Why live? It’s pointless. Why die? Equally pointless. So let’s just go have a beer and have a maudlin evening. Might as well, eh?