Look at me, all nihilistic again

I really think something may be wrong with me here on a fundamental level. It's not the work in college, which there is a lot of but it's easy, that gets me, nor is it people; I had a fantastic weekend that only reaffirmed my love of friends and family. Rather, it's wondering why I'm here and what I'm to do with myself. For the life of me, I don't know; though it is an old thought and a recurring one at that, it has relevance and timeliness because of what reawakened this train of thought,

English requires the reading of one Edwin Rolfe's collected poems and the attached notes about his life. Reading over one hundred pages of this today, of this man's struggles for the working class and against the bourgeois, what inspired him to write a number of tomes praising communism, Marx, the revolution and the poor, that's what got me. Because, though I may not agree with his idol-worship of the poor, making them into heroes when there is nothing particularly noble about such unfortunate circumstances, I do agree with his goal to a point, his idealistic struggle for a world wherein there is some sort of universal community wherein all are united in perfect solidarity. And now, here we are, some 50 odd years after his death and what changes, by all of his impassioned work, has he spawned?

Nothing. Nothing at all. He has a small collection of books in print that are bought a bit, bandied about and discussed by students, professors and just the poetry enthusiast, and that's all. His high-minded quest to change the world, his beautiful word play and obsessions have wrought a nominal change; the plight of the worker is no better than it was, is arguably worse. And his much lauded Marxist turn, what was the result? Repercussions without end, repercussions only the mad could be happy with. This man didn't even simply write about what he believed should be done, he in fact lived it, and for what? Changes that are temporary in the extreme, that lead nowhere for a race that has no ultimate destination. Good lord, but why?

If everything I'm going to do and love and know turns to nothing one day, why should I do anything besides simply jump off a bridge and end the delayed reaction? My writing, should it ever amount to anything, will only give those with the correct insight a warning that no one is really worth much of anything, that even at his best and most noble man is a ludicrous creature elevating himself to something special, making always his history into tragedy. But how can anything that happens to man be a tragedy whenever other animals have experienced worse a billion times over? Good lord, ants die in the billions every day, cows and other livestock in the millions; and why are their deaths any less important than men's? Because of a random meaning we've slapped unto everything and anything, because of our logic which is just our race's silly way of interpreting the ink-blot that is reality? Everyone just spews out the same canned phrases and messages and maxims, everyone is so full of the same hate and self-righteousness, everyone has themselves convinced that something about their existence is inherently meaningful and I... well, I just don't see it.

I can't prove it, but then, neither can anyone else prove their thesis. They can argue, can make a brilliant temple from their logic with an unparalleled framework of meshing logic, reason and a million rhetorical devices, but in the end, nothing in the universe says they have any more validity than me. Because that's just it, the universe is, if observation has told me anything, completely neutral. It doesn't strive to fix injustice, it doesn't work diligently to enact some karmic law. It simply... is, just a big blob of matter and anti-matter, just something floating out in the middle of the even greater multi-verse, which in turn is nothing. Good lord, all of this almost makes me wish that Lovecraft's Great Old Ones and Elder Gods are the true powers of the universe, to expose it for the mad, deranged, unorganized mess it seems to be, to prove me right. And yet I want something else; I want purpose, reason, and not the sort Camus and Sartre proposed, a reason made by yourself. It's simply stating what already is: people already do pick a reason they believe best to guide their lives and accept it as ultimate truth; whether or not they realize it's a choice made from a search is irrelevant. But in the case of the absurdists and the exetentialists, what they said made even less sense: accept that the universe has no meaning, then assign it whatever meaning you want even though you know it has none. So, everything is just an inkblot, then?

At this time, everything I do seems so fucking pointless, just useless. I can't go a day without questioning the why or even the who of myself and it makes me sick. It's not even deep thinking, just self-defeating wars of reason with myself and what little I've read that almost always leads back to a voice screaming at me of my insignificance. And it may be right, which is more than I can bare. I'll go off to Greenland,then, and bury my head in the snow. People say that's irresponsible, but then, isn't everything irresponsible? They say that if I join their cause, that if everyone did, then we could save the world. If everyone was on the same side, then who or what would there be to fight? Nothing, because of the definition of such actions. So my stance of head-hiding would, were everyone to adopt, save the world in its way. But we say this as if the world needs saving; please, we humans have concern only for our continued existence. Even should we nuke this world and wipe out the vast majority of life on the planet, it seems evident to me that it would recover, slowly but surely, marching right over man's nasty little foot prints and stamping them out with something much grander in scale, or hell, even simply filling in those foot prints with a new equivalent to mankind.

Maybe I just need to take some anti-depressants, or something. Or maybe Camus was right when he said that all of this deep-seeded philosophical whining would disappear with sexual relief. Fuck if I know. I'm an idiot.