Nothing is Important
Entry posted by __Kratos__
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How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturbed a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and the pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history --- greater then the fall of empires --- I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence. If I had to choose between the world and me, I would reject the world, its lights and laws, unafraid to glide alone in absolute nothingness. Although life for me is torture, I cannot renounce it, because I do not believe in the absolute values in whose name I would sacrifice myself. If I were to be totally sincere, I would say that I do not know why I live and why I do not stop living. The answer probably lies in the irrational character of life which maintains itself without reason. What if there were only absurd motives for living? Could they still be called motives? This world is not worth a sacrifice in the name of an idea or a belief. How much happier are we today because others have died for our well-being and our enlightment? Well-being? Enlightment? If anybody had died so that I could be happy, then I would be even more unhappy, because I do not want to build myself on a graveyard. There are moments when I feel responsible for all the suffering in history, since I cannot understand why some have shed blood for us. It would be a great irony if we could determine that they were happier than we are. Let history crumble into dust! Why should I bother? Let death appear in a ridiculous light; suffering, limited and unrevealing; enthusiasm, impure; life, rational; life's dialectics, logical rather than demonic; despair, minor and partial; eternity, just a word; the experience of nothingness, an illusion; fatality, a joke! I seriously ask myself, What is the meaning of all this? Why raise questions, throw lights, or see shadows? Wouldn't it be better if I buried my tears in the sand on a seashore in utter solitude? But I never cried, because my tears have always turned into thoughts. And my thoughts are as bitter as tears.
-E.M. Cioran, "On The Heights of Despair"
*typos if any, are mine.
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