Why am I reblogging this? I don’t know exactly. It strikes me as a deep truth, even if I’m not entirely sure why. If I have a reason for posting, it is that I too long ago recognized the futility of the materialistic/religious life lived to benefit others who think of themselves as superior yet were so obviously inferior in every way. “…absence of any profound reason for living… the uselessness of suffering.” Indeed, life without purpose was to me an endless drudgery, a curse. And when all I had to look forward to was either heaven or hell, and I was convinced that heaven was unattainable, that didn’t help. Suicide (which I survived) seemed like the right answer. Then came the concept of setting up a purpose for myself, one that transcended this time, and all time, and I never looked back. The mere suggestion that I should end it all now would be unthinkable, perhaps even insulting. Yes, we live in terrible times, and yes, my visions tell me they are about to plunge into horrors unimaginable and yet, all of that bolsters my desire to see it through to its natural end. And after that, not heaven, not hell, but the rise of the Phoenix.
Killing yourself amounts to confessing. It is confessing that life is too much for you or that you do not understand it… It is merely confessing that it ‘is not worth the trouble.’ Living, naturally, is never easy. You continue making the gestures commanded by existence for many reasons, the first of which is habit. Dying voluntarily implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous character of that habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation and the uselessness of suffering. — Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus. (Penguin Classic November 26, 2013) Originally published 1942.