The Human Condition
Life is unordained chaos. From the depths of its maelstrom, existence randomly catapults countless projectiles at our very being without a chance to duck. From the arsenal of our innate coping mechanisms, we might choose to flee or fight the situation, or perhaps feed or fornicate with the tempting encounter. It all depends.
The more advanced among us might forego the simplicity of first-degree animal reactivity. We don’t live in the jungle anymore, after all. Most modern-life missiles aren’t going to cause immediate harm to us. This gives us ample time to ponder, evaluate and analyse ourselves to the ground over a plethora of insignificancies we can’t distinguish from more pressing things.
Take identity. It is perhaps important to circumnavigate ourselves in relation to everything in order to create a safe haven inside where we can deal. We become an entity, and we defend ourselves against life’s disappointment, rejection, sadness and anxiety, all the while cherishing joy, recognition, belonging and love.
That’s as good as it will get. The problem is that for all the good and bad, terrific and horrifying life has to offer, things average out over time, approaching the mundane and decidedly flat. Life, in all its randomness, tends to be boring and unglamorous, interspersed with various peaks and notches.
Unfortunately, human entities are afflicted with a conviction things will, against all odds, get better. We will all be beautiful, ethereal white swans after we come out of our temporary grey ugly-duckling phase. If this doesn’t seem to happen on time and life remains deflated or deals out a bit too much disappointment, rejection and emptiness, we decide we are broken and must be fixed.
This is a false notion, one that we can’t see for what it is: bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people. It should also be mentioned that bad things happen to bad people, much like good things happen to good people. Indiscriminately, out of the chaos. There are more pressing things to worry about.
It doesn’t stop us from searching for answers we already have decided are there, disorders we yearn for to classify ourselves as. Our identity is enclosed by what we see as symptoms of our illness. We are licensed to be broken.
Yet we fail to see in these ample, insignificant ponderings that our recurrent ’symptoms’ - confusion, loneliness, anger, attachment – are the illness, indeed ourselves.
We lack constant radiance and determination, positivity and success, accompanied by peers who cherish us for who we have decided we are. We receive recognition and nurture for our perceived ills. It takes the pain away, the pain of the human condition. There is no fix for it.
