Lacking...

So why are we so unhappy?

A (after hearing a profound comment from B): You should go into philosophy!
B: Yeah, get a philosophy degree..lol.
A: Why not?
B: Because I would rather not be flipping burgers for the rest of my life.

And that, my friends, is exactly the point.

In Parting

Not how one soul comes close to another but how it moves away shows me their kinship and how much they belong together.
- Neitzsche

...more drunken musings...

I can understand people who feign interest when one chatters on about things that are insignificant to them. I can even understand when they don't.

I can also understand the kind of distant politeness that we observe with strangers and acquaintances. In fact, I think this to be of a good character.

However, there is one thing I can't stand - those who are friendly in certain social interactions, are indifferent, even impolite, when outside of those environments.
These statements hold to a particular scenario. It is the simple act of smiling once encountering someone with whom you have a professional, or otherwise formal or otherwise relationship with. They don't have to be your friend, but can be someone that you recognize, and knowing that they recognize you as well.

It is very simple. When you pass by some acquaintance, smile. That's all. Just smile. You don't have to talk - not even a friendly hello, nor do you even need to break a step. But at the very least acknowledge their presence. I understand that you might be having a horrible day, or really truly do not like this person. Perhaps they annoy you, or pester you on occasion. But really, is a smile too much to ask? Even better, if not a smile how about a nod. The object is simply recognition of that person's existence, acknowledgment of their presence.

The offense that is caused when one does otherwise might have negative effects that you have yet to realize. Not only that, it can be hurtful for the person whose presence is being ignored.

I am sure that all of us have experienced this at one time or another. Furthermore, I am sure that perhaps we have all done the same. Yet I believe it is not only juvenile, and of bad character, but ultimately, it might come back to haunt you. In one's life, while not long, we encounter others. These others might just show up in our future, and hence all of our words and actions will be remembered. Hence, I suppose the moral of the story is, be kind to others, acknowledge their existence (whether you wished they existed or not) and continue on your way. This is not only exemplary of good character, but of a good soul. I truly believe the arrogant will get their due - and will likely know why when it happens, only too late to reverse the animosity they caused.

Drunken Musings

Life is complicated. This is known to all that care to glance at the passing moments of life - as the particular. I am no philosopher, but I have been guided by the light of their knowledge.

If Hegel is right, and that woman represents the universal, then I may just concede defeat in this department.

Feeling is more than an accident, yet it stems from the accident of circumstance, of accident. It appears out of nowhere, yet is so profound in its effects that it embroils one with questions of moral obligation, tolerance and the like, and infiltrates the soul with such a sentiment as to cause everything from anxiety to fear and love.

I suppose, then, that I am no more a woman than Hegel proposes. For my feelings become my very being. Obsession takes over, and I am lost to anything else. While my rationality continues to prevail over the desire, the pain and angst of tragedy continue to obscure my view of the world. The inclinations of desire demote my practical to the theoretical, though in reverse, and I can do nothing but act in opposition to it in an attempt to dissolve it. As of yet, no luck. But I continue on my road, which seems to be the ultimately human road, of commitment and duty, and rationality. I continue in my solitude, and while I know I will persevere, I too understand that it is not necessarily what I desire, or what ought to be, but what ultimately is, and hence, am obligated. That does not make it better, or worthy of merit, or credit. It simply makes it what is. Understanding that is, is all that it takes to continue on - perhaps not in contented circumstance, but at least in comfort of where I stand.

That time of year again.

It is impossible to realize one's own existence, one's identity. I find myself as one of them, not of myself. I simply live an ordinary life, like all others, the to an fro of the everyday. Yet a life less ordinary in that I am myself, separate from all others. My thoughts, while thought by others, are entirely my own. The context necessarily changes, for the circumstances do. How do I reconcile my self with that of my sameness. How do I reconcile my otherness with the fact I am a self? Is there meaning to our experience, other than that which will come after and yet gain it's meaning only in history. Does the present actually present itself as something purely novel, since that is what it truly is. No one has achieved this moment before, and yet billions are realizing the same moment at the same time.

It is not merely a spectacle for we are in it, and we live in it and we leave it in death. But how are we to understand our existence if we are caught up in the ordinary, in the everyday of life. Or is the everyday the only existence we have. There must be a way out. Yet the only way out is death, in which we can realize nothing.

So do we live in the void, the emptiness, the unknown? We look to the past for example and the future as hope. But we rarely live in the present. That is, we rarely TRULY live in the present. For the present is in relation to, and relative because of, its place between the past and the future. The here and now simply is, yet the here and now is an ever-changing, never stable, place in time, that exists only as long as we do. We continually seek further gratifications, seeking out further desires and yet when we achieve them we generally do not realize we have, for we seek to have more. This is an irreconcilable response to living, for the enjoyment we seek, once enjoyed, nevertheless dies in the moment, and hence we seek another. Perhaps this is the beauty of life, but at times, it seems like a curse, of involuntary movement, of the noxious reality of being, and the weight on the ideal of happiness that we continually are driven to realize. Perhaps it is the rationality that it is to be human that inhibits our realization of happiness, for when it does occur, or when we may realize the means for it, we rarely find it in its place, seek it elsewhere, in some new location in time, and the cycle of seeking continues.

I say that I am content with my life, for at the very least, I live. And yet, I cannot bear witness to my happiness, for once it occurs, and once I am conscious of it, it remains only as a memory. It is built upon past experience, which were once a present, however I did not know it then. And I seek my future desires from things to come, and again, when realized, I do not know them.

However, I do feel love, and affection for others. This, is perhaps the only source of happiness that I can feel, for otherwise, it remains simply as memory, yet emotions can be stirred at the sound of a symphony, or a smell.

Handwashing

I think my thoughts have had a tendency to flow from an idealistic perspective. Things ought to be better, things can be better. But I see more clearly now.

While I still believe things ought to be better, and we should continue to work towards that end, it is clear that it can never be perfect. Not according to my ideal, nor the ideal of any one else.

This all stems from the thought (and the fact) that not everyone washes their hands.

It is well known that the best defense against disease and illness is to regularly wash your hands. This is taught in grade school and most parents even teach this at home when their children are very young. We drive it home through education, demonstration and insistence. Yet none of us do so the amount we should.

The point is that human beings, even though they know what they ought to do, even in the case of their own health and happiness, do not always do what is necessary. And it is due to this fact, that none of us ALWAYS wash our hands when we should, that perfection, morality, pure justice, even if it was possible to know, can never come to be.

To the tune of Fire Engine Red

Humbled - official merriam-webster definition:
1: to make humble in spirit or manner
2: to destroy the power, independence, or prestige of

Everyday I am humbled. Every single day.
The most recent case of this was about 15 minutes ago.

I recently set out on the task of writing an essay with no ideas but my own (created with the assistance of classmates and professor) and the author's to work with, and I did just that, worked. The end result was my paper, by no means outstanding, but reasonably insightful highlighting what I found to be in many ways a profound argument. Glass of wine (er, multiple glasses) within reach I completed editing and turned it in early.

Two days later I begin to doubt my rationale and question if I really am off my rocker (which is a question that is still up in the air), and thus if I simply got it wrong. Perhaps, but I was sure of the premise so I relaxed.

Today, creeping uncertainty revealed itself once more...and I gave. I googled it (because if you're ever unsure about anything, google has the answer). The result was that today, once again, I am humbled.

This prologue, although no more than a window into a personal experience that you could care less about, has a purpose. And the purpose is this: no idea or thought is ever really our own.

Every original thought, is less original than you would care to think. Those arbitrary thoughts, have, in essence, been thought before. But for the infinite amount of thoughts, only a slight portion of them have ever been put to speech, and even less to print. And if you write something down, google it. Seriously. You will more than likely be humbled yourself. Needless to say, my reasonable insightfulness was nothing of the sort, as I simply regurgitated the thoughts of not only the author, but of so many others that thought them before.

Such is the life of the ordinary....something to the tune of fire engine red.