While writing, like everything else, may be a pointless exercise, I get more relief from writing than I do from watching some Hollywood film. Schopenhauer counsels us that we can only truly be ourselves in solitude. Even when we are in the presence of others or out in society doing what we have to do to secure sustenance, we are alone in our thoughts, and this is liberating actually. I mean, just because we might be able to handle facing unpleasant facts does not mean those around us will.
Once one has come to certain conclusions about life and the nature of living creatures, human society is just so phony.
We have absolutely no idea why we exist, and most people obviously yield to playing a role "as if they have their **** together." I figured this out when I was a teenager, so I am sure most everyone is aware of it on some level. Sometimes an exchanged glance with someone can confirm how bizarre it is to have been born.
I will be able to muster some enthusiasm for a few days or even a couple of months about some learning project, but all the while, right in the midst of wracking my brains, the familiar feeling of pointlessness returns ... and I welcome it.
Confirmation of Schopenhauer's philosophy is not a "mental illness" called depression. Insights into the absurd quality of existence, even if these insights lead one to the point where one is no longer a "productive drone of civilization" is not a step in the wrong direction. We have our entire life-time to practice how to die. Celebrate the fact that we are destined for Nothingness.
Nothing need be done. No books have to be published. We do what we do, and, as animal creatures, we hide .... That's what creatures do - hide from hostile and dangerous environments.
The less I care about being able to articulate what it is I think or how it is I feel, the deeper my mood can become.
Was it Schopenhauer who write that "the unspeakable is not unthinkable"
Something like that.
Just because we can't speak it, doesn't mean we can't think it.