So lately I've read Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and Descartes' Discourse on Method. Dillard questions why the world works the way it does and Descartes asks what is truth, what is knowledge in its purest form.
Cogito Ergo Sum, I think therefore I am.
I think. All the time as a matter of fact. Poetry, politics, literature, etc you name it.
I know I exist, because I have a brain. Because I think for myself. I know I'm not dreaming, because I can feel the physical world seep into every pore of my body.
But what point is there too it? Why do I exist in the first place?
I go to school, I read the books I'm supposed to read. Learn the formulas and theories everyone claims that I need to know.
I constantly feel as if I'm on the edge of a great realization. Whether to some global conspiracy or to some great truth of life and the human purpose.
Its as if the answer is beyond my own understanding. The answer and reason for which I search is blocked by my own humanity.
If I do exist then why can't I know. If I have a purpose as a small human living on earth, then why does the invisible barrier of my humanity stand in my way.
Should I embrace my humanity and all its faults, leaving the greater questions to whatever creator of the universe there is? Or should I do as many great men have done, like the Emperors of Rome, and seek the status like that of a god?
We fill our lives with short term enjoyment. TV, movies, and sadly books. What purpose will that all serve when we are gone?
All great people left behind something, whether it be legacy or written work, and idea or problem.
Theres never a win-win in this world. No matter our deeds or intentions someone or something gets hurt. Everything has a consequence, whether we like it or not. Even what we leave behind.
My mind is a haze, a fog that is near impossible to clear. Only 10% of it will ever be used in my lifetime. What's the purpose of the rest? It was given to me for a reason, why can't I use it on a daily basis. I want to use it. I have a brain that works properly like a well oiled machine. Why can't it reaches it full potential?
Will it be like the Titantic, that uses its full motors as it heads straight into the iceberg, causing it crash and sink, a wasteland at the bottom of the sea?
My mind makes no sense. Whats the truth that I search for? The truth of my existence? What is what? Either way it makes no sense.
Listening to: Josh Groban
Reading: Paradise Lost
Watching: Mad Men
Playing: Fable III