The burden of consciousness
I wonder if there exists a life which has not already been lived, a narrative which has not already been scripted. All I see in life is repetition, in everything, in everyone. So often I have wanted to not do anything, because every action, every intention, seems to lead into an already existing outcome.
Once, I almost got hit by a vehicle and for a couple of seconds, right after the vehicle had passed me, it felt like I could see the wholeness of life materialize before my eyes as a web of interconnected threads. Even the air turned into threads and touched every existing particle around me. That’s when I understood that even if I stood perfectly still and did nothing, my very existence influenced the movement of the threads.
You cannot escape the game of life, the scripted narratives, the movements. The hero, the fool, the emperor, the saviour, the slave, the oracle, the blind, the victim, the villain, the worker, the entertainer, the caretaker, the weak, the strong, the beautiful, the ugly, the good, the bad, the sick, the healthy, the crazy, the intelligent, the genius, the maniac, the psychopath, the frightened, the brave, the naïve, the idealistic, the angry, the poor, the rich, the flock, the unique, the cynic, the pessimist, the optimist. We are all these characters, all the time, but we choose to not see it. Because if we did, we would realize that these scipted charachteristics don’t mean anything and we would have to admit to ourselves that the only thing separating us from every other living creature on this planet, is our ability to invent narratives. Consciousness is such an absurd thing to exist. It’s so absurd, so absurd, so absurd! It’s so small and frivolous.