“So we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?” - Hunter S. Thompson
I have a recurring vision of living on a desolate piece of land in the desert. The lack of civilization and of life in general - like a Martian landscape, wholly alien to the lush, temperate shorefronts and woodlands within walking distance from my home - provides me with the comfort that total peace is achievable. Surely death is representative of that peace, but its finality prevents me from pursuing that end.
My actual existence has headed in an opposing path - sprouting roots that keep me in suburban New Jersey. These roots prevent me, through an admixture of guilt and fear, from moving to an Earthship in Taos, New Mexico. Would I give up a job, a marriage, a child, stability for an unknown? I wonder about the ability we all have to take that leap and whether or not I'd ever.
Conceivably, we live through thousands of fictional ends in our own minds - maybe some of us repress those thoughts as not to have them (untidily) infringe on the controlled experiment we call life. Some of us indulge, but only along "safer" avenues that pose little threat to the current flow. A few will choose to live in what looks like complete wantonness or even chaos to the rest of us, because their "boxes" are not as tight or complete as the rest of ours. These renegades are often viewed as dangerous fringe types, as they threaten the (surprisingly precarious) order of things that keeps most people from sleeping with their neighbor's wife or doing massive amounts of drugs.
Visual and performing arts, music, movies, books, and social media all provide users with fantastical threads at short bursts. It's clear why so many of us are "addicted" to the instant gratification of "new-new-new" that makes up modern communicative outlets. Glimpses of an "other," desirable or not, are always at our fingertips.
Recently, I read an article about the waning creativity of humans as we age. The evolutionary explanation boils down to the burden of responsibilities that comes with adulthood. It makes sense for our ability to solve well-worn problems to take precedence over wildly imaginative exploits that kept us entertained as children. I often lament this lack of imagination in my fellow adults (which drives my desire to avoid working with other adults when possible and why my occupation of choice focuses on children). Post-childbirth, I felt, that more than ever, the society in which we live is devoid of any meaning. As an existentialist, the belief that there is an inherent meaning to anything is generally foreign to me, but I suppose I had been holding onto some hope that something meant anything at all. The nihilistic edge that crept into my worldview was already there, but the juxtaposition of a new life (my child) to the hollowness of walking (literally and figuratively) through an endless stream of consumer goods became truly jarring. I've written about that feeling before - after having watched "The Hurt Locker" and now I feel it on a daily basis, with little ability or care to suppress such thoughts as ludicrous.
This tension between what I feel and what I live brings me back to the idea tha control, however illusory, is a strong drug that takes hold of all of us in some way. So as I search for a big picture answer for myself, I can only work to change incrementally at the present moment - open myself up to different experiences than I normally would pursue. What we should inject into our lives is a little risk. Extending a hand to someone in need when you previously would have ignored their plight, traveling despite money being tight, attempting to learn a new skill like cooking or painting, applying for a job you felt was out of reach, swiping right on someone who's not exactly your type....No risk, no reward, right?
