In the process of giving most of my stuff away I came across a pile of old journals. My first thought was to throw them out.
"Are you sure? They're your journals and you might want to keep them", my friend told me. I figured I would read through them later and throw them out afterwards. That night I read them.
They date back at least 10 years and are a hilarious collection of diatribes and rants, the kind that haunt the mind of a young immature man. It can be summed up as a perpetual existential crisis brought about by an inability to connect with other people. Best of all it bordered on psychosis and was one of the stranger journals I've ever read — several times I would write "Hey future self…" and lambaste myself through time. The past yelling at his own future; I'm not even sure what to make of that.
One particular page jumped out at me. It was different in that it was one of the few positive entries and it reflected nicely my current state of mind. So, here it is, my views on today from 10 years ago:
This is quite nice. I'm sitting on a white wire-frame bench across the street form my apartment complex. It's tucked underneath the world near an old office building. There are bright white lamps illuminating this page.
All that I could ever want right now is a pen and paper. There's nothing else I need. Life truly is so full of beauty, so full of wonderment, so many things to fill you with happiness. How could I have ever been so blind? To be so depressed… not to see… to experience this?!
No one wants this to be heaven, they all imagine something better. Yet everything they imagine, everything they dream and hope for is right here, right now, every minute of every day.
I just asked myself, "where do you want to go?" And all I could do is laugh. I could die right now. I have everything I want: my pen and paper. Everything else I could want is always with me. A pen and paper are all that I need. I want to make this moment one of the few moments that mark my life. The moment that symbolizes a time of perfect fulfillment. It wasn't a mountain to climb, money to earn or a car to drive. It was my pen and paper. The tools to immortalize this moment.
How can I even ask what the meaning of life is? It's right in front of my face! Do I ask what the meaning of a bench is when I sit down? Do I need to think about the meaning of my pen and my paper when I write? Why then do I ponder the meaning of life when I live?
How many times have we realized this and how many times have we forgotten?
Maybe it takes a movie or maybe it takes your demise, but we all learn the meaning to this existence. We knew it when we were born and we probably know it as we die. It's just that time in between where we can't seem to remember. We won't let ourselves know what seems to be the most basic truth.
Some see life as continuous torture until you die; some see life as filled with powers beyond them; some see life in the eyes of ignorance. Right now I see life in the eyes of a humbled soul in an eternal moment of beautiful completion.