A Question Of Purpose

I have often taken the view that life is utterly meaningless, and I find that unshakeable. It is one of the core tenets of my atheism, and one of the reasons that I find myself being such a happy-go-lucky scamp, with all of the friends in the world. Don’t misconstrue my words; I’m not saying that I choose to do nothing: that’s your inference, not mine. I just don’t think that there is any point in anything.

I have a delightful little family, which I enjoy being part of; I do a job which I enjoy; I eat the food and drink the drink which makes me happy; I write what I like, about what I want, and there are some people out there who choose to read it. That doesn’t mean that there is any cosmic significance in any of my actions: no one is going to remember me when I die except those whom I leave behind.

Any talk of “It was meant to be” or “The universe wanted this” is met with a resounding verbal slap. Because it’s fucking horseshit, and the person birthing such a verbal stool is beyond superstitious. In fact they are a fucking moron with as much right to the water they consume as a locust. We’re on meagre rations now, fucker, give yours to an African family: they need it more than you do. Idiot.

I suppose what I am getting at is that life is not a story. While the beginning and the end are pretty well defined, the middle is what you make of it, and very few things work out in anything close to the way they by any rights should. Good people should rule the planet, but they’re pretty much just a bunch of spineless fops who cannot settle on a given decision for fear of hurting millions of people.

Bad people should not run anything at all, but they’re the only people who have the gumption to seize power by the balls, and make the decisions. OK, those decisions will always benefit the people who look and sound like them, the people who got them to power in the first place, but that’s why they’re bad. If they were good people they’d be pretty much useless at pretty much everything.

I digress. I didn’t come here to talk about good and bad people; they’re just exemplars; indicators of the direction of travel: the world is not wonderful; in fact it is predictably awful. Once you have that locked down, you are in a far better position to accept the meaninglessness of the whole of existence. If you’re not miserable, you’re not paying even nearly enough attention, OK?

Something which has been praying on my mind for a while now is that I don’t know whether to keep this blog going. I write it after work and at the weekends, but I’m getting busier at work. As with all of my writing to date, it starts off as a reaction to having very little creative agency in my work: Then my job gets exciting again, and I forget to keep writing. Is that where I’m about to find myself again?

I hope not, because I am enjoying this blog thing. The idea for it first came about when I found myself being officially reprimanded at work for posting on Facebook that I either wanted to slit my own throat or those of the people around me. Concern was expressed. It left me with the feeling that I could not express myself adequately in any of the venues I had built for myself. Suboptimal.

I had originally thought of setting this blog up as an anonymous Twitter feed where I would give full vent to my fury with no consequences. In the end, I dedicated that to my bowel movements, and If Percundis was born. I’m just not sure if I want to keep it up. The thought crosses my mind to water it down, publish fewer blogs every week, and fill in the extra space with repeats of past glories. I could.

It brings me back to the concept of purpose. I write because I want to get down on paper the myriad things which clutter up my mind – and it works; see my forthcoming blog on the correct usage of the word “Myriad” for reference – but that’s not all. I write because I am an egomaniac who wants to be remembered by history as a writer. The tide is against me, but since when has that been an issue?

If I stop writing my blog, if I stop writing my books, if I stop publishing the words I put down on to electronic paper, am I giving up my hitherto unrealised potential to become one of the greats of world literature? Probably not; but would my life – measurably – be any worse off for that? Let me point you to my previous comments on my nice life etc. Surely I have enough to be content with?

This side-gig, this sense of a higher purpose or manifest destiny, this ego masturbation is not really an elevation of my status beyond who I find myself being, even though I have always asserted that the opposite was true. I am a person, not a writer of immeasurable potential. If I’d been that true to the cause I would have done more about it, and not started to enjoy my varied jobs over the years.

Blah blah blah, here I go again. It is at this point that I wish upon a star that I was the kind of fucking imbecile who believes in “signs from the universe” to make my decisions for me. I would then make some shit up, and do what I felt was right in the first place. That’s how stories work, isn’t it? Self-delusion has never tasted more unicorn-flavoured. Really, I just love the sound of my own typing.

If I were a bad person I would pay people to read it (advertising: tried it, but it was as temporary as a smile), but that would be empty, unless it led to success, in which case it would have been a down beat in the drama of my life. If I were a truly bad person I would concoct some horrible news story and then use that to parlay the URL ifpercundis.com in to the minds of the world at large. Nasty.

Instead, I will just do what I normally do when I have to make a decision: ask my partner. I may not do what she suggests, but at least we’ll have talked it over in a logical manner. Writing a blog is a lot of fun, but I’m not going to pretend that it has any significance beyond me getting some ideas off my chest, and pretending that people actually want to read it. Share buttons can be found below.

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