And... I was right. It passed. The infrequent, yet persistent existential crisis is averted, for now. Return to your regularly scheduled... whatever!
Sunday, January 9
Saturday, January 8
Existential Desire
I am a singular disaster of humanity. This will be one of those typical Saturday rants combining lunacy, angst, self-pity, anger, hopelessness, and an everpervasive sense of defeated resignation that maybe one person reads because everyone else is either too disgusted, embarassed, bored, or just plain apathetic to care. And that's quite fine. Because, at the moment, everything just seems downright pitiful. You see, the existential beast has once again reared its emaciated frame to declare itself king of the heap of bones that is myself. But, as always, it is just "at the moment." For it's all words and temporary emotions, the past nothing but things to yearn for and avoid, the future something to fear or look at with stupidity. What has prompted this arrousal of what, by most signs, had been sleeping for quite some time? I'm not really sure. I'm just angry. I've let my blasted guard down, let that fool of a romantic take control of the council that supposedly resides in my twisted head and now it's lead me on some fool errand's where it actually convinced me I was content. I may even have had hope. Of course, the existentialist is laughing that cruel, mocking laugh he generally does when the romantic sticks his hand in the garbage disposal that is existence trying to find some gem of purpose only to shredded. Oh, it's clear now. My path, what I really "ought to do" with the rest of my pitiful life, is to find some boring, mundane job and die alone in obscurity. For that would be the honest way. I wouldn't be tempted to fool myself then. I would forgive all trespasses, try to be a generally pleasant person, but turn into that introvert who was always "such a nice boy" whenever the cops interview the others in his appartment after a murder/suicide. Actually, I don't think there'd be any murder. That might be too much of a justification.
Now, one might think at this very moment I'm depressed and miserable. Actually, I've only got mild anxiety and anger. It's dull anger, though, so I'm not shaking. Oh, speaking of shaking, that's what my father was referring to, without his knowledge, when I arrived home tonight. Me, angry at existence and myself over matters as important as anything in the coloring book of Fate, and he has the gall to tell me he's failed me as a father. I can only assume he'd been drinking, because he only lets his self-pity show whenever he loses control. As you might be able to tell, that is not a genetic problem as I generally let it show whenever I feel like it. At any rate, this time he hasn't paid enough attention to me and my oboe. Apparently my (I'm so tempted to start dropping f-bombs, but because it's one of the last refuges of pointless control I senselessly force upon myself, I'll refrain and let the stress/frustration build more) attacks of bodily convulsions and inability to read whenever I tryout for grades could have been lessened or prevented if he'd held my hand or something ridiculous like that. No, dear papa, my problem is that despite my frequent attempts to convince myself that I am above accomplishment, this was my one chance to justify all the thousands of dollars you squandered on oboe lessons. And the pressure was too great and in typical fashion I overcame that wonderful drug that worked so well and I blew the entire thing. Oh yes, it was quite abysmal. In fact, I'm almost certain it's a contributing factor to this rant. I didn't want it to same I'm decent or anything. I wanted it to justify wasting money. I wouldn't care if it was my money, my effort that was thrown away, but whenever it's other people's I feel as if I have responsibilities and obligations I simply didn't uphold. It just occurred to me that some of you may not have known I was trying out for Sr. Clinic, although since "there is no try" it may be more apt to say "I did not Sr. Clinic."
And then I'm spurred to figure out exactly what I want out of this trash heap. What do I want? Everything that pops into my mind I'm once again aware is only temporary. Every single blasted thing. (Oh, almost a curse word! Aren't I risque?) I could love, but that would fade. I could write the "Great American Novel" as my feeble attempt at creation has been so derisively called, but that will be a flop, a confusing jumble of well-intended sentiments that gets a "I liked the message, but the execution ruined the idea." I'll have to put that on the cover... I could become a great actor, but that's right... not only do I have no talent for entertainment, I also lack the ability to perform under any sort of expectations or strain. I could be that math teacher, but to what purpose? At the moment I don't want to be bothered. I'm tired. I don't really want anything except peace, being responsible for only myself, the ability to fade into the background, and to die. Oh, it's not some suicidal wish, it's simply the desire to stop delaying the inevitable because the inevitable bothers you so much. This is the anxiety, the strain, the weight that hangs above oneself when you have an assignment to do and you keep procrastinating on it. I have a life to end and I'm sitting here wasting time on the computer. It's good for all sorts of procrastination, you know.
Have no fear, dear reader, if you actually do exist and I'm not ranting to myself (for I believe in your position this would be something that would be rather difficult to read. So... I'm sorry?). This is only a mood. For I am a man of moods. Aren't we all? Why should my wayward emotions be any different from yours? I suppose some of you get upset over petty things that lead to lesser levels of anxiety and frustration. Then, perhaps, you look at me, whining about a lack of direction and purpose. "'Everything's going to fade, we're all going to die eventually, boohoohoo.' Geez. For crying out loud, get over it. I've got more important things to worry about. You don't know my pain. Get over it." I don't know your pain, that's quite right.
I don't know anything. I preach, I advise, I try to aid, but on what ground do I stand that I would be in such a position to render such a service? Am I a hypocrite? Oh, surely, in many areas not brought to my attention. But not in my advice. No, I think I am just a failure. What have I failed? I've failed to find a purpose. I've failed to maintain the illusion. I let myself go. I let my self-control, my rigid repression ease, lessen, rot and I forgot to keep it in moderation. Or did I? What have I done that is so very extreme? In fact, I still won't curse. Even in the foulest of moods, I won't let myself write four letters and press "send." I forgot. I always forget. Every lesson. Every rule. Every guideline to mental success and the route to becoming the type of person I ideally would like to be. Then I remember and think "I knew this, I've been over this before." And a week, a day, an hour later it's gone. Just like emotion. Words. It's all grains of sand, swirled in the wind then deposited into some dune we call a psyche. The wind blows, our mind changes, our perspective is altered, and we dance the dance again. Which will it be next? The Puritan? The introvert? The Romantic? The failed dreamer? The depressed teenager? Can this all be dismissed as childish rantings? When does it become "unacceptable"? When do I "have to grow up"? Or maybe I'm already too grown up. Maybe I'm thinking of things no one should even consider. Maybe I'm thinking and that's the problem. Oh yes, remember that one? Thinking is what causes all my problems? Everything seems to be a cause and cure for all my problems.
And now, you'll finish reading this (if you actually read the whole thing) and say some irreverent quip or one lined response that is supposed to alleviate it all. Or you'll remain silent. Like most of the time. I respond. I try to add my own input. But I'm wrong, confound it. I'm wrong. Someone say something that's close to right. Someone respond with something of some use. Or don't. Because in a day, an hour, a few minutes it'll fade. And I'll look at this and think "Well, isn't this pointless and embarassing. I ought to delete it." But I leave it up. A testament to a moment. Perhaps I think it will last, on some level, however wrong that may be. Did you notice that? I just threw you some symbolism. Maybe we're all symbolic of something. God's writing a book. Am I the main character? Are you? Does it matter? I remember Rosencrantz said something like "I remember a time when there were no questions." I do too. Was I happy then? I can't remember. I'm not sure anyone can.
Now, one might think at this very moment I'm depressed and miserable. Actually, I've only got mild anxiety and anger. It's dull anger, though, so I'm not shaking. Oh, speaking of shaking, that's what my father was referring to, without his knowledge, when I arrived home tonight. Me, angry at existence and myself over matters as important as anything in the coloring book of Fate, and he has the gall to tell me he's failed me as a father. I can only assume he'd been drinking, because he only lets his self-pity show whenever he loses control. As you might be able to tell, that is not a genetic problem as I generally let it show whenever I feel like it. At any rate, this time he hasn't paid enough attention to me and my oboe. Apparently my (I'm so tempted to start dropping f-bombs, but because it's one of the last refuges of pointless control I senselessly force upon myself, I'll refrain and let the stress/frustration build more) attacks of bodily convulsions and inability to read whenever I tryout for grades could have been lessened or prevented if he'd held my hand or something ridiculous like that. No, dear papa, my problem is that despite my frequent attempts to convince myself that I am above accomplishment, this was my one chance to justify all the thousands of dollars you squandered on oboe lessons. And the pressure was too great and in typical fashion I overcame that wonderful drug that worked so well and I blew the entire thing. Oh yes, it was quite abysmal. In fact, I'm almost certain it's a contributing factor to this rant. I didn't want it to same I'm decent or anything. I wanted it to justify wasting money. I wouldn't care if it was my money, my effort that was thrown away, but whenever it's other people's I feel as if I have responsibilities and obligations I simply didn't uphold. It just occurred to me that some of you may not have known I was trying out for Sr. Clinic, although since "there is no try" it may be more apt to say "I did not Sr. Clinic."
And then I'm spurred to figure out exactly what I want out of this trash heap. What do I want? Everything that pops into my mind I'm once again aware is only temporary. Every single blasted thing. (Oh, almost a curse word! Aren't I risque?) I could love, but that would fade. I could write the "Great American Novel" as my feeble attempt at creation has been so derisively called, but that will be a flop, a confusing jumble of well-intended sentiments that gets a "I liked the message, but the execution ruined the idea." I'll have to put that on the cover... I could become a great actor, but that's right... not only do I have no talent for entertainment, I also lack the ability to perform under any sort of expectations or strain. I could be that math teacher, but to what purpose? At the moment I don't want to be bothered. I'm tired. I don't really want anything except peace, being responsible for only myself, the ability to fade into the background, and to die. Oh, it's not some suicidal wish, it's simply the desire to stop delaying the inevitable because the inevitable bothers you so much. This is the anxiety, the strain, the weight that hangs above oneself when you have an assignment to do and you keep procrastinating on it. I have a life to end and I'm sitting here wasting time on the computer. It's good for all sorts of procrastination, you know.
Have no fear, dear reader, if you actually do exist and I'm not ranting to myself (for I believe in your position this would be something that would be rather difficult to read. So... I'm sorry?). This is only a mood. For I am a man of moods. Aren't we all? Why should my wayward emotions be any different from yours? I suppose some of you get upset over petty things that lead to lesser levels of anxiety and frustration. Then, perhaps, you look at me, whining about a lack of direction and purpose. "'Everything's going to fade, we're all going to die eventually, boohoohoo.' Geez. For crying out loud, get over it. I've got more important things to worry about. You don't know my pain. Get over it." I don't know your pain, that's quite right.
I don't know anything. I preach, I advise, I try to aid, but on what ground do I stand that I would be in such a position to render such a service? Am I a hypocrite? Oh, surely, in many areas not brought to my attention. But not in my advice. No, I think I am just a failure. What have I failed? I've failed to find a purpose. I've failed to maintain the illusion. I let myself go. I let my self-control, my rigid repression ease, lessen, rot and I forgot to keep it in moderation. Or did I? What have I done that is so very extreme? In fact, I still won't curse. Even in the foulest of moods, I won't let myself write four letters and press "send." I forgot. I always forget. Every lesson. Every rule. Every guideline to mental success and the route to becoming the type of person I ideally would like to be. Then I remember and think "I knew this, I've been over this before." And a week, a day, an hour later it's gone. Just like emotion. Words. It's all grains of sand, swirled in the wind then deposited into some dune we call a psyche. The wind blows, our mind changes, our perspective is altered, and we dance the dance again. Which will it be next? The Puritan? The introvert? The Romantic? The failed dreamer? The depressed teenager? Can this all be dismissed as childish rantings? When does it become "unacceptable"? When do I "have to grow up"? Or maybe I'm already too grown up. Maybe I'm thinking of things no one should even consider. Maybe I'm thinking and that's the problem. Oh yes, remember that one? Thinking is what causes all my problems? Everything seems to be a cause and cure for all my problems.
And now, you'll finish reading this (if you actually read the whole thing) and say some irreverent quip or one lined response that is supposed to alleviate it all. Or you'll remain silent. Like most of the time. I respond. I try to add my own input. But I'm wrong, confound it. I'm wrong. Someone say something that's close to right. Someone respond with something of some use. Or don't. Because in a day, an hour, a few minutes it'll fade. And I'll look at this and think "Well, isn't this pointless and embarassing. I ought to delete it." But I leave it up. A testament to a moment. Perhaps I think it will last, on some level, however wrong that may be. Did you notice that? I just threw you some symbolism. Maybe we're all symbolic of something. God's writing a book. Am I the main character? Are you? Does it matter? I remember Rosencrantz said something like "I remember a time when there were no questions." I do too. Was I happy then? I can't remember. I'm not sure anyone can.
Friday, January 7
Asking for a Little Respect
Ah, that Otis Redding. You kids can have your dang punk music. I've got oldies! I guess that's apt. I was born old, I'm living old, and I'll die, guess how, old. For some reason I can't relax and let things flow. I'm impatient, I want control and for things to happen when I want them. It's easier when you know that's impossible, you can resign yourself to waiting. But when there seems to be a possibility of immediate results, not obtaining them makes me anxious and uncomfortable. My mother blames TV and the internet, since we're so accustomed to instant "gratification." I dunno. I guess I just need to slow down my thoughts and desires. Let the current carry me instead of worrying "What's Around the Riverbend." Dear fake lord, I just quoted Pochahontas. It's time for bed. Cheers!
Monday, January 3
Hmph.
I watched Garden State today. For some reason, most movies, especially those that aren't simplistic action/romance, seem to start me thinking. I dunno. For instance, with Garden State I initially hated it. I guess because it was existentialistic in the "nothing matters, my life is despair and empty hedonism." Then, as the movie progressed, it took on a Romantic twinge that seemed more superficial than anything else. The movie itself wasn't too bad after I got used to it, but a lot of that had to do with my enjoyment of things with "purpose"; any sort of adventure that seems to have meaning is endearing to me. Perhaps because I lack that sense of purpose myself. Other than that, the other thought-provoking issue directly related to the movie was the "home" phenomenom. And I guess I'd noticed it too. Home has a sense of "belonging" that is hard to replace. It's not necessarily good or bad, I just feel "grounded" when I'm home. Like there's nowhere else I should be. I can stay here indefinetly without imposing. It's going to be odd losing that. Not as dramatic as the movie made it, but still... different.
At any rate, I also got started on a tangent on reality. I thought my first impression of the movie was so poor because it was "real." And I must say, much of the script was. There were many "awkward silences" that just aren't included in most forms of entertainment because no one likes them. I guess that was the director's intent, to create a "real" feeling despite the somewhat fantastical nature of the characters. Anyway, I started thinking about my inability to stand "reality." I suppose I define reality as boring, undramatic, purposeless; generally existential. Then I started thinking about all of our escapes: movies, TV, books, sports. But are they really escapes or just aspects of a larger reality that includes the imagination? I guess they're escapes from emotion, from the "self" in lieu of reality. But there certainly are a lot out there. Without food, media, or action it's disturbing how little there appears to do that wouldn't qualify as "work." Basically, if you remove escapes, the highlights are work, other people, and love. I'm not particularly sure if that's good or bad. I decry my escapes, saying they dull my mind and emotion, but without them I recall a great deal of angst and purposelessness. Reality seeping in. Oh, it's all too complex.
Wouldn't my journal entries be easier to follow if they simply recounted my day? They certainly wouldn't be as verbose. But there are so many days their individual contents sort of become unimportant. It's the undercurrents that matter. And perhaps I'd rather deal with those. To each their own...
At any rate, I also got started on a tangent on reality. I thought my first impression of the movie was so poor because it was "real." And I must say, much of the script was. There were many "awkward silences" that just aren't included in most forms of entertainment because no one likes them. I guess that was the director's intent, to create a "real" feeling despite the somewhat fantastical nature of the characters. Anyway, I started thinking about my inability to stand "reality." I suppose I define reality as boring, undramatic, purposeless; generally existential. Then I started thinking about all of our escapes: movies, TV, books, sports. But are they really escapes or just aspects of a larger reality that includes the imagination? I guess they're escapes from emotion, from the "self" in lieu of reality. But there certainly are a lot out there. Without food, media, or action it's disturbing how little there appears to do that wouldn't qualify as "work." Basically, if you remove escapes, the highlights are work, other people, and love. I'm not particularly sure if that's good or bad. I decry my escapes, saying they dull my mind and emotion, but without them I recall a great deal of angst and purposelessness. Reality seeping in. Oh, it's all too complex.
Wouldn't my journal entries be easier to follow if they simply recounted my day? They certainly wouldn't be as verbose. But there are so many days their individual contents sort of become unimportant. It's the undercurrents that matter. And perhaps I'd rather deal with those. To each their own...
Quick Notes
There's a new poll up. Hopefully it'll be more successful than the last one.
Since school is coming up again, I need to get back on a sleep schedule other than "2:30AM to 10:30AM", so if those (especially a specific person) still online at the lofty hour of 12:30 could start ignoring me or whatever it takes to get me to go to sleep I'd be most grateful. You know who you are...
Heh, have a good second to last day of break everyone!
Since school is coming up again, I need to get back on a sleep schedule other than "2:30AM to 10:30AM", so if those (especially a specific person) still online at the lofty hour of 12:30 could start ignoring me or whatever it takes to get me to go to sleep I'd be most grateful. You know who you are...
Heh, have a good second to last day of break everyone!
Sunday, January 2
Saturday, January 1
Sad
Tonight I had my longest spell of depression/sadness in months. Perhaps it was because my day was spent mostly at a funeral. Or maybe it's because I didn't escape today(video game) like I've done most every day in December, thus I actually felt the progression of time, including the onset of night. Or maybe it's the new acne medicine that seems to cause depression, birth defects, inability to see in the dark, irritability, dry skin, and probably alien infestation. It's... powerful.
At any rate, it happened. I think you can divide the types of depression into two categories: One focuses on the result of an action, the other focuses on inaction. Depression caused by actions such as breakups, insults, and failures spur on thoughts of worthlessness and suicide. But depression caused by inaction just makes one... sad. They're the kind that I generally associate with the holidays, Friday nights, and the end of breaks from school. Basically, I look back and think, "Wasted... all squandered... There's so much I could do! So much I could see! So many people to meet, art to create, art to enjoy, adventures to be had, life to be lived! And yet, I waste it all at my computer, lost in some faraway, fictional realm where I have some warped sense of power and purpose. It's not real. It's baseless! I'm wasting my life... Look at me! 18 and what have I to show for it? I've done nothing, created nothing, influenced nothing! All my 'art' is either lacking or forgotten. Everyone I've tried to help will just revert back to their same problems. Every person I know will die or forsake me in favor of a new life with new people. And when I die, only distant family members who never called, never wrote, never cared until they finally realized they too had squandered the oppurtunity of my now ended existence. When I die, will I be celebrated? Or will I be literally swept under the carpet, my cremated ashes nothing but a trinket that must be 'revered' that no one really wants? I don't have a Heaven to look forward to. All I have is a flash in the pan, a few brief years before my uneventful demise. So short is this life we have, and it's wasted before we even start..."
Such is my thought process. And it's queer, because the depression spirals into sadness. Not self-pity, not cynicism, but stoic acceptance of an existentialist fate. I have an intense desire, at that moment, to create. I want to create something that emulates this exact moment, this exact feeling because in its tragic masochism, it is itself beautiful. That's what I'm doing right now. I'm trying to capture the feeling, save it for my depression shall subside, and I'll commit the folly of escape once again for I rationalize that that world is no more real than this one can claim to me. The difference is that I know the other is fake. I can only guess at this one. You can argue that knowledge is more important than happiness, but what if you knew our existence was a fraud? Don't you consider it a blessing that the ignorance of our reality is thrust upon us, never to be revealed until it ceases to hold us in its grasp? Those who argue that the knowledge of a situation is superior to a full appreciation for it don't know what this whole game is about. And yet... I see the hypocrisy. I see my earlier self with an intense desire to create, spurred on by a depression that I cling to because it is beauty. The art that I crave is beautiful. But one must consider the price the artist and his work's admirers pay. It's emotional masochism. You sacrifice your happiness, your joy, the goal that every single person should have in order to achieve power. And power corrupts. My favorite example is Mark Twain. All his life was spent in cynicism and creating art. His works are extolled even today as witty, moving, and a part of America's bloodline. Yet his end was consumed in nihilism, existentialism, and misery. He knew too much. He thought too much. He created too much, let the biting questions, the inner doubts we try to hide so deep inside us that their poison can never spread, out into the open and they consumed him. Is that the price one must pay for knowledge? Is his life any better than that of one wasted on fantasy and some form of insubstantial bliss? Many artists are miserable. Poe, O'Neil, every single drunkard and cynic who has written some masterpiece we all cherish all paid the price.
So I'm stuck at an impasse. As I write, I think "I've partially done it, I've partially captured the emotion I wanted. It's verbose, as usual, but if I were reading this I would say 'I want to emulate this.'" And yet, the beauty fades as it is expelled onto "paper." My mood improves, my interest flees, and I find myself... bored. The masochistic urge is past, now that my goal is accomplished. Does it take sadness to appreciate happiness? No, because there are most likely those who read this who think "Self-pitying, angsty teenage fool. Get over it." Are they incomplete? Do they lack an appreciation for joy for they know nothing to the contrary? I don't know. This ought to be my final novel, the ultimate question of which diverging path to take. A creation of art and a nurturing of suffering or an appreciation of life leaving nothing of substance behind. Action versus Inaction. Ah. How like a novel. We've come full circle. Which will it be, indeed. Two paths with the same consequence. Some people can never be happy...
At any rate, it happened. I think you can divide the types of depression into two categories: One focuses on the result of an action, the other focuses on inaction. Depression caused by actions such as breakups, insults, and failures spur on thoughts of worthlessness and suicide. But depression caused by inaction just makes one... sad. They're the kind that I generally associate with the holidays, Friday nights, and the end of breaks from school. Basically, I look back and think, "Wasted... all squandered... There's so much I could do! So much I could see! So many people to meet, art to create, art to enjoy, adventures to be had, life to be lived! And yet, I waste it all at my computer, lost in some faraway, fictional realm where I have some warped sense of power and purpose. It's not real. It's baseless! I'm wasting my life... Look at me! 18 and what have I to show for it? I've done nothing, created nothing, influenced nothing! All my 'art' is either lacking or forgotten. Everyone I've tried to help will just revert back to their same problems. Every person I know will die or forsake me in favor of a new life with new people. And when I die, only distant family members who never called, never wrote, never cared until they finally realized they too had squandered the oppurtunity of my now ended existence. When I die, will I be celebrated? Or will I be literally swept under the carpet, my cremated ashes nothing but a trinket that must be 'revered' that no one really wants? I don't have a Heaven to look forward to. All I have is a flash in the pan, a few brief years before my uneventful demise. So short is this life we have, and it's wasted before we even start..."
Such is my thought process. And it's queer, because the depression spirals into sadness. Not self-pity, not cynicism, but stoic acceptance of an existentialist fate. I have an intense desire, at that moment, to create. I want to create something that emulates this exact moment, this exact feeling because in its tragic masochism, it is itself beautiful. That's what I'm doing right now. I'm trying to capture the feeling, save it for my depression shall subside, and I'll commit the folly of escape once again for I rationalize that that world is no more real than this one can claim to me. The difference is that I know the other is fake. I can only guess at this one. You can argue that knowledge is more important than happiness, but what if you knew our existence was a fraud? Don't you consider it a blessing that the ignorance of our reality is thrust upon us, never to be revealed until it ceases to hold us in its grasp? Those who argue that the knowledge of a situation is superior to a full appreciation for it don't know what this whole game is about. And yet... I see the hypocrisy. I see my earlier self with an intense desire to create, spurred on by a depression that I cling to because it is beauty. The art that I crave is beautiful. But one must consider the price the artist and his work's admirers pay. It's emotional masochism. You sacrifice your happiness, your joy, the goal that every single person should have in order to achieve power. And power corrupts. My favorite example is Mark Twain. All his life was spent in cynicism and creating art. His works are extolled even today as witty, moving, and a part of America's bloodline. Yet his end was consumed in nihilism, existentialism, and misery. He knew too much. He thought too much. He created too much, let the biting questions, the inner doubts we try to hide so deep inside us that their poison can never spread, out into the open and they consumed him. Is that the price one must pay for knowledge? Is his life any better than that of one wasted on fantasy and some form of insubstantial bliss? Many artists are miserable. Poe, O'Neil, every single drunkard and cynic who has written some masterpiece we all cherish all paid the price.
So I'm stuck at an impasse. As I write, I think "I've partially done it, I've partially captured the emotion I wanted. It's verbose, as usual, but if I were reading this I would say 'I want to emulate this.'" And yet, the beauty fades as it is expelled onto "paper." My mood improves, my interest flees, and I find myself... bored. The masochistic urge is past, now that my goal is accomplished. Does it take sadness to appreciate happiness? No, because there are most likely those who read this who think "Self-pitying, angsty teenage fool. Get over it." Are they incomplete? Do they lack an appreciation for joy for they know nothing to the contrary? I don't know. This ought to be my final novel, the ultimate question of which diverging path to take. A creation of art and a nurturing of suffering or an appreciation of life leaving nothing of substance behind. Action versus Inaction. Ah. How like a novel. We've come full circle. Which will it be, indeed. Two paths with the same consequence. Some people can never be happy...