The Fear

Last night was unusually clear. Over the past few months, I've spent hours sitting on my balcony looking up into the sky. The stars always filled me with an overwhelming sense of hope; a positivity and feeling of unity with the universe that I hadn't ever felt before. The vastness of the universe provided comfort for me at the time because my existence as a product of it felt as though it were the answer to all of the big questions.

Although I understood the chaos, incomprehensibility, indifference, and amorality of the universe, I was able to derive a hope and optimism from it. I thought about how different things could be tomorrow, how people, attitudes and emotions can change so suddenly and how all worry, stress, and fear is fruitless and unnecessary because everything that we'll ever need is inside us. All it takes is the realization that we are all perfect. That everyone of us are as perfect as we're ever going to be, it's just a matter of fully actualizing that perfection that resides in all of us.

Last night, however, I cowered at the sight of the brilliant stars above. All that had once given me so much comfort only brought panic. The hope that I once felt when I imagined the infinite possibilities of tomorrow was turned on its head. What if I feel a pain in my stomach tomorrow that turns out to be a malignant tumor. The endless string of positive potential that I once saw turned into a mudslide of misery, all of which lead to the same bleak ending.

For a short while now death has never strayed far from my mind. I'm constantly preoccupied with my own mortality. I understand that the universe is random and amoral. I understand that it can bring about positive as well as negative events, all of which have revolutionary potential.

As Camus pointed out in the Myth of Sisyphus,

The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

With the absence of a god, that dreadful punishment becomes our daily lives.

I think that I agree with Camus' assertion that the only worthy philosophical question worth asking is that of suicide. Undoubtedly, I choose life over death, that's not the issue I wish to point out. What I wish to point out is that although life is the obvious choice, the prospect of committing to a life with the promise of a happy ending is far more obvious and more easily justifiable than committing to a life with the promise of nothing. It's become increasingly difficult for me to focus on only the positive potential for tomorrow, for the potential horror of tomorrow is increasingly apparent to me.

Is it simply a matter of developing the same disinterest with the question at hand as the universe has in our respective lives?