When we are born, and as we grow, we steadily accumulate illusions. Delusions, I’d even call them lies. Lies that enable a society, a civilization, to form and remain steady. To help people cope and be content with their lot in life, or to think that if they struggle hard enough, they can climb out of the box they were born in and climb into another, seemingly better box. The lie that consumption leads to happiness. Lies that bad things only happen to bad people. Lies that the wrongdoing of others will always be punished, in this world and the next.
I have a real issue with the notion that people are innately good or bad. It’s simplistic, and therefore it’s one of the biggest and acceptable lies of all. Forget complex variables like genetics, upbringing, socialization, mental health, circumstance- no, bad people are baaaad. Good people are the ones that help me, who look nice (and look like me), and who conspicuously talk about social maladies on social media. Ow, it hurt to write that.
What lies do I hold on to? Not many left, that I know of. One of the last I’ve lost is my own particular notion of friendship. I had this childlike notion about friendship, that as long as you made an effort and respected boundaries, a lot of things (appearance, interests, etc.) didn’t matter. But they do. I’ve come to realize in my life, I’ve had a series of prolonged acquaintance-ships. I’d already lost the notion of “family always loves you” long, long ago, and I’d pinned my hopes on friendship. Ah, well.
For me it all boils down to humans being animals. Complex animals, but animals nonetheless. Animals that know about death.
Oh, comfort. I don’t resent people for lies about death. But this is how I see it.
Everyone will die. Everyone. My husband is terrified of death. He wants to sign up to be cryogenically frozen after death and resurrected later. It’s his form of religion, thinking somehow he will live after death. Me? I’m just going to fucking die. I will die, my borrowed atoms and molecules will return to the universe, and I will be forgotten. And that’s okay, you know? I’ll join the roughly 100 billion people who have died and been forgotten. The world will keep turning, and I am merely a single person among billions. My worth is negligable but existent, and it’s enough. My insignificant, non-noteworthy existence is enough for me, and for my spouse.
I just hope I leave the world marginally better than how I found it. Eventually.