People ask me questions, such as, “How are you?”

I would reply with “I’m chilling” because I do not know what else to say. To me, the act of “chilling” acts a colloquial placeholder for existing. I know I am existing, but I don’t know much beyond that. Because I do not want to reflect on the state of my condition. Doing so would require creating a value judgement on my current states of mind, and I do not trust myself to accurately judge the true nature of my condition.

I lie to others. I lie to myself. In fact, it seems that lies are more of a certainty in the universe than truth. In the middle is the rotten truth, and then there are the layers of calcified lies that are built around a flimsy truth. But, sooner or layer, the calcified container of layers because stronger than the truth itself. Through the lies I tell to myself, I construct mores lies. And, eventually, lies are all I can tell myself. Somewhere along the sheer mass of lies, I find how to navigate the other lies relative to the truth I have long forgotten, and I forget about that truth as if my dear life depended on it.

But, how would I know if what I perceive as truth is truth at all? I remember watching this short video about the mochokid catfish, which lays their eggs among the eggs of certain mouth-breeding species of fish. As the host incubates both species of eggs in their mouth, the catfish eggs hatch before the hosts eggs and eats all of the other eggs in the hosts mouth. Then, the catfish would leave the mouth, and the host would not be able to recognize the difference between the catfish and their own children, so it would nurture the parasitic juvenile catfish until maturity.

I, too, wonder if I am just nurturing a parasitic idea in my mind. I wonder if sadness is my idea at all all, or is it just an outside force that has deceptively taken over all my conception of truth?

I wrote this paragraph while writing my novel:

If I had the strength to be honest, I would tell myself that I was alone. If, of course, I had the strength to be honest. But strength requires faith, and it seems that the more I deplete my remaining time on this planet, the more I become convinced that faith is an attitude afforded by only those who have never experienced an occurrence that would challenge their faith in themselves. Faith, as I have come to realize, only exists as an absence of experience. Faith, even in its purest form, can be shattered given the existence of experience. Faith, in the face of experience, transfigures into disillusionment.

That is the state of finality. Disillusionment. It is experience that pulls us closer towards understanding the futility of existence. The fundamental schism that is ontologically necessitated with our very being. When we were young, this dissonance had not been present in our lives because there have not been enough experiences to reveal the truth of the world to us. Our parents have sheltered us, for good or for worse. And, when we leave their bosom, the rosy conception of the world that has been the result of ignorance is still present with our lives. Instead of seeing the world as it is, we continue to leave our rose-colored glasses on.

But, exposure happens. Exposure ruins. Exposure slowly chips away at our glasses. Raindrops sometimes accumulate on the lenses, temporarily leaving a distorted view of the world quite unlike the one we have experiences until then. Is that beauty? Or, perhaps, we drop our glasses and chip them. Out of a small corner of missing glass, we are finally able to the see the world as it is, without this false lens that has become more real than reality itself. As we age, the lenses continue to chip off, slowly. Before long, the glasses chip away completely. Broken. The rose-colored lenses are no longer present, and we are able to see the world as it is.

Of course, in the absence of experience… for example, if life continues to always go your way, then this disillusionment will never happen. The glasses remained unshattered, and life is still as rosy as it has been from the beginning. Well, perhaps, a little tarnished, but smears can be cleaned with a carbon fiber cloth. Shattering a lens in two cannot be cleaned. Little damages can be repaired; big damages cannot. Without disillusionment, the illusion continues to prevail, and thoughts of suicide never come.

What do we do then, once we have seen the truth behind the veil?

I have very little idea myself. I have started to ask questions. Who? What? Where? Why? And how? Thank you, elementary school. But, it is also a question to address whether I should ask questions at all. If I am not asked a question, then I cannot tell I lie. To me, it is as simple as that. I will continue to live without asking questions about myself because doing so would construct a lie. Because I would prefer to live without privileging the continued existence of lies, then I must not think about all those questions I have in my life. To live in a state of ignorance — how I wish I could do so.

Some questions should not be answered, but what about those questions that should have never been asked?

In the song “Miracle” by CHVRCHES, the singer starts with a simple line:

Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies
Careful what you wish for

It is a sentiment that I frequently feel these days. I want answers to my life for questions that I could not articulate for all of my life. I do not care much whether the answers to these questions will help me in my life. The value of “helping” seems to be quite laughable at this point. What use do I have for helping myself? It seems very self-help-y, the concept of wanting to help myself. I have many issues with self-help, of course, but even in the form that is not in self-help books. I feel as if there is little value in wanting the best for yourself at all. Such would be challenging the inevitable wave of disillusionment. The wave should be neither avoided nor challenged.

It would seem that the answer to these questions is that they are questions that should not be answered. What an unsatisfying answer. Human nature seems to indicate otherwise; we want answers that we cannot have… especially if those answers have self-destructive implications. The answer is a goal in itself. The goal is not to help ourselves. The goal should not be to help ourselves. That would mean that we have still accepted that happiness is the ultimate goal in life. That would challenge the inevitable wave of disillusionment that consumes us all. Well, not everyone, I suppose. There are still those who are destined to be happy, unfortunately.

I remember in Doctor Who, the fundamental question that can never be answered is Doctor… who? Once the question is answered, well, I never really quite finished the series to realize the consequences of asking the answering the question. It is quite similar to my life. There are the questions that I ask myself, and then there are the answers to these questions that should never be answered. Well, at least, I believe that they should never be answered. Once they are answered, then I have finally seen the truth behind the veil of the universe.

And, once I see truth, the natural response is suicide.