Camus And Dostoyevsky: Damn Them Or Thank Them?
The angels of God or perhaps even God himself gave the gift of tongues during fervent prayer as church members prayed over me. Nothing came to me and I felt the pressure to produce something that didn't exist at all; I began to speak jibberish. Shortly there after I read Camus and Dostoyevsky, the latter of whom unintentially had me siding with the wrong character. It has been nearly forty years since I dropped it all. I've continually asked, why bother? what for? meaning, why should I rebel when I know certain facts to be true? (The world is in chaos, Life is absurd...) etc. Making these questions even more difficult to answer is my bi-polar diagnosis in '98. Since I lean toward the depressive state, I ruminate on these issues. And thanks to Camus, I say, that's it, I'm done, no more rebelling for me. Twelve obviously inept efforts to quit this existence, I continue to find out why people choose to live. Met a man who lives with crippling arthritis throught his body every hour of every day. I asked him why he just didn't end it; get out of his pain. He said he wanted to prove that he could handle it. What?! Why? I feel like I am missing something ie not seeing something right in front of me that could give me a clue about why life is worth living. Don't tell me a beautiful sunset, don't tell me seeing a piliated woodpecker for the first time last week should make my existentence worth it, don't even tell me that the volunteer work I do helps others to the degree that my absence would be sorely missed. Big deal. Is it selfish to ask why I should stick around?