A wise man once told me,
‘All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’
I don’t always listen to Hemingway’s advice because he’s a bad influence on me but I am going to tonight because I can. This is a true sentence: My brain is broken and I am out of control.
Sometimes, I think maybe if I never discovered philosophy and psychology,
if I never had a vested interest in metacognition or indeed cognition in general,
if I never sought to have my questions answered by old classic thinkers and contemporary cogitators,
if I never read all those philo/psycho books from the library,
those treatises and textbooks and manuals and theses and articles and dusty old pamphlets
that didn’t answer my questions at all but rather created more questions,
and then even more questions on even more schools of thought,
if I never became obsessed with ideas of life and death,
with afterlife and reincarnation and resurrection,
with existentialism and ontology, phenomenology and metaphysics,
religion and spirituality, good and evil, morals and ethics,
if I never really had an interest in working out these things,
if I didn’t really care,
if I let my questions go unanswered,
never gave them much thought or even no thought at all,
I think maybe
I wouldn’t be mentally ill.
If, if, if.
Such a silly word.
Type it a dozen times and it gets even sillier.
If I didn’t read philosophy books.
If I wasn’t mentally ill.
If I ruled the world.
What if I did,
what if I didn’t,
what if you did,
what if you didn’t?
What if I didn’t read philosophy books.
Well, I did, and look at me now.
Perhaps education has damaged me. Being knowledgeable has stifled me. Having an academic mind means I might always be dissatisfied with what I know and what I don’t know. It pains me when I think about how I can never read all of the books in the world. It actually hurts, I feel sick thinking about all the amazing books in the world that may change my life but that I will never read. I will never know. I will never know. I will never know everything in space or everything in the oceans, or everything on this planet. Not knowing all the things I need to know is killing me. I used to revel in the unfamiliar. Now I am terrified of it.
It appears that I have more in common with Doctor Faustus than I’d like to admit.
All I wanted to say in this post is:
Maybe if I didn’t discover philosophy and acquire an active interest in it
then I wouldn’t be so mentally fucked.