In 2016 I was so heartbroken, if God himself would have knocked at my door and wanted to bless me, I would have slammed the door right back into his face and continued playing video games.
I felt like a burden to the world, and I didn’t feel like I deserved any help either. I didn’t want to make the guilt even worse.
Now looking back, I sometimes wonder if I drew a weird sense of pleasure from this type of suffering. Like if I tried to fill my “meaningless life” with pain so I don’t have to face this nagging and overwhelming void anymore.
Something is always better than nothing I figured. Anything… Anything but this pulling void. I just can’t stand its drag anymore…
But I didn’t like the endless misery either, and so, at some point, I dumped the fake suffering and started to fill the “nothing” with words instead.
I wrote about everything that bothered me until eventually my emotional sink wasn’t leaking anymore. In some crazy sense, I picked up the pen because I felt like something was missing in my life.
However, later I wondered, if I started to write books because of this “lack”, is it then really me who made the decision? Or am I driven by something else instead? What if my real motives are buried somewhere within me and heavily shaped by my past?
To prove my father wrong?
To please my little ego?
To show her that I am not as useless as she made me feel over all those years?
Or, what if I’m wrong about this little theory too and I am actually guided by something superior instead? A spiritual being? A higher purpose? The Universe? God?
What if I am a mere pawn on a chess board and I am doing exactly what my player wants me to do? What if he, like a chess grandmaster, sees my every upcoming move way before I realize what’s up?
And what if he has a gameplan and knows that, sometimes, he has to sacrifice a piece in the short run, to make sure he’s winning the game in the end?
Is There Even Something Like A Free Will?
Not so long ago, I used to believe that I have full control over my life. I believed I could go out there and mold myself into whatever I wanted. I could leave my own little dent in the world.
Sometimes I felt like I even had great control over other human beings as well. I became so good at manipulating the people around me, I felt like a powerful puppet master who ruled over his little minions.
I remember how I was so proud of this “skill” back then. And I drew a false sense of pride from it. I guess, I loved the control, because most often I felt like I lacked the control to steer my own life in a different and better direction myself.
However, today, I only feel guilt and remorse for ever tapping into this power. I feel like trash robbing these naive people of their free will.
And, ironically, I suddenly feel more like I have little to no control over my own life as well.
Of course, I know that I could switch my life upside down in an instant. I could quit my job. I could jump onto the next plane and live on some fancy beach in Thailand.
I could.
But then I don’t.
Instead, I continue writing books…
And so, I wondered what motivates me to write these books instead of pursuing all these other valid options.
Why books?
There is no money in books. And nobody is reading anymore anyways. It isn’t a noble goal either. It’s not as fancy as being a successful entrepreneur and millionaire for example. It sounds rather BORING instead…
So I guess I might have been robbed of my own free will as well.
What if someone else is manipulating me too without my conscious knowing? The influences are everywhere. The voices are constantly wishpering. And I have to be alert all the time to not confuse them as my own gut feeling or valued opinion.
But is there even a chance to ever escape them at all?
What if we are doomed to be manipulated no matter how hard we try to withstand it’s temptations?
I guess we can’t escape it.
There is no free will…
You’ll Always Be A Slave
There is only our duty to serve. To serve something. Everyone is always serving SOMETHING…
Even if you proudly believe in nothing, you still push the idea of nihilismn forward. You are an agent of meaninglessness if you will. And you serve your master’s bidding here as well.
And isn’t it funny that the word hero comes from the Greek ἥρως (hērōs), “hero” (literally “protector” or “defender”). What if hero offers himself to protect and defend? To serve?
What if the hero figured it out all along? And what if he knew that he had to sacrifice himself to serve and finish what he was sent to do?
But it’s never like the hero choose his calling.
It furthermore happened that some life event called upon the hero. And not the other way around. It was never the hero who chose his destiny, but destiny itself choosing its hero.
So, what if life is now knocking at your door as well?
