From time to time, I go through periods of intense doubt and sink into a disenchanted torpor. This past week has been among those moments for reasons too labyrinthine to quickly summarize in just a few paragraphs.
In these moments, I try to reassure myself in that “this too shall pass” – yet, the nagging worry tugs at me: is my normal, cheerful demeanor just a façade, a pretty face, I put on for the world to see? Am I just an extraordinarily effective fraud, whose upbeat mask of optimism slips every once in a while?
I don’t know.
I’m not a religious person; I cannot take comfort in the idea of a benevolent deity watching over my steps … and in these moments, I envy those who can. I envy those who can sustain the illusion of meaning and purpose in a rudderless world - and the absurdity of that envy is as disquieting as the envy itself.
Without god, mortality is a disturbing thing to contemplate – its terrifying arbitrariness, its propensity to spawn unanswerable questions, its ruthless finality.
Have you ever had one of those nights that leave you wondering what it’s all about?