On The Joy of Being Pointless
This planet is crawling with billions of us — stressfully going to work, devotedly posting trite photos online, and angrily arguing about the policies and behaviors of self-serving elected officials. On the surface, human behavior can seem very industrious and meaningful. Upon closer examination, however, it bears a striking similarity to scurrying rats.
Most people try to present the impression of being happy and fulfilled. Or at least occupied. Some "find themselves" through religion, by raising a family, or in making sourdough starters; others volunteer for veterans' causes, rescue animals, or collect vintage watches. Some go to therapy, some journal, some hike — these are all excellent distractions from the universal truth that, cosmically speaking, life is entirely pointless. We are mortal. Time is gradually erasing the memory of everything and everyone we see or hear.
Yesterday, I attended a Veterans' Day luncheon hosted by the local Veterans' Service Commission. The luncheon was held to recognize and applaud local veterans for their past service to the country. A man who had served in the Army during the Korean Conflict was the oldest in attendance. Born in 1928, he had undoubtedly outlived nearly every associate and connection and witnessed tremendous worldwide changes. He came to the luncheon alone, was well-dressed, and walked with a surprisingly straight and firm gait. He resembled a much younger man. When he left the event, he was driving his own car, with a focused urgency that suggested he had some vital task awaiting his attention.
I've never seen this man before, I didn't speak with him, and I don't expect to see him again. His long life has run its course, and I am ignorant of what he's seen, heard, or learned. From my narrow perspective, his entire life has passed in an instant, like a puff of smoke. The year 1928 is a vague, shadowy mist to my mind. Brief encounters are usually unfulfilling. Yet, from the perspective of the universe's age (approximately 13.8 billion years), all human encounters and relationships are brief encounters.
Even so, we all rush around as if what we do has enduring meaning and purpose. I see it everywhere. People investing their time and energy into this activity or that, in this club or that, supporting this cause or that. It's a shared struggle, a collective urgency in the face of a starkly apathetic universe.
According to Alexander Camus, the conflict between our human desire for a rational, meaningful world versus the obviously irrational, indifferent one we live in is absurd. He posited that life is tragically ephemeral and inherently meaningless, yet we persist in searching for something that just doesn't exist.
What's the answer? Freedom. A peace treaty with the absurd. This stage production that we call life is absolutely meaningless, but I still have choices. I can choose to prepare for my role by adjusting my costume and rehearsing my lines. Then I can decide to step out on the stage of life, knowing full well no one wrote the script and no one is paying much attention to my performance. It all comes down to choice. For me, my ability to choose equals freedom. My free choices are also acts of defiance against the universal ambivalence.
I want to play my bit part well. To be an excellent extra in a production that never makes sense, but can still occasionally be enjoyable. In my current role, you might notice me tending the yard, petting the dog, or laughing at the news. Primarily, I'll be striving to maintain my dignity until the final credits roll.
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