Like I’m sure everyone else does at some point, when I was younger, I would spend my nights in bed before sleep recursively asking myself why. Why am I here, in this body, on this world, in this universe?
I came to believe that since everything comes from and returns to nothing, everything along the way between the two is equally meaningless, as the sum total for every possible permutation of an individual’s life is zero.
I came to believe that my life as I know it was akin to a ripple in a reflecting pool, created by previous ripples, creating further ripples.
I came to believe that senses are deceptive, this world is a construct of the mind, selfhood is a delusion, and that consciousness is the only thing that’s real.
Using the concept of the self only as an abstraction, I came to accept the possibility of individual free will, while believing in a collective determinism, in that everything returns to an equilibrium, or everything balances back out to a buoyant nothingness, but it’s possible that we, as abstracted individuals, work as agents for or against that return.
I came to view greed, chauvinism, and all other self-serving motivations as sicknesses of a deluded self, serving only to create further existential imbalance to counteract, but also that those sicknesses counteract equally opposing imbalances.
I came to respect all manifestations of the conscious mind, from me and everyone I know, to the oceans depths below and stars above, as one being.
None of this is distressing; it’s fairly calming, actually. There is no authority; there is no objective, only endless subjectivities, and if you remain conscious of what you’re doing, inspecting every desire and attempting to understand its source, maybe you can reduce the amount of pain you cause yourself.