66. Growing Oldness

Something deep is stirring in me this morning. I'm not sure what it is. It is not about writing or any of my plays in particular. It is about life--that is life in these all too frail human bodies we inhabit while we exist in this form of being. Growing old is never taken into account when people decide to have children--that is sentencing those children to growing old and dying one day and all of the difficulties and pain it will cause. It is a dark part of our existence and one which society is afraid to acknowledge or even admit exists. We make it too easy to hide from the basic realities of life. People are more pliant to mindless distractions, so our economy chooses to exploit our mindlessness. We too exploit ourselves and allow ourselves to be exploited in these ways to prevent this all too real part of reality from coming into our conscious mind. Are we all so afraid of dying that we do this to ourselves? Death scares us, but everything is death and everything will change over time and that very change is death itself because when something changes into something new, the old thing that was there is now gone as it has died off. There were many unexplained feelings pulsing through me yesterday, feelings I didn't like or want to be taken in by or consumed with, but they were there. The breaking down of the human body is inevitable, once the body has been brought into existence. You grow up as a child, but there is a moment in everyone's life when you cease to be growing up and you begin growing older--that is there is a moment when your body begins to begin the inevitable process of decaying (unless you die an untimely death) which is to begin the process of dying. It is important we understand dying and in particular the process of dying because this is ultimately what gives the most sincere meaning to being alive. Are our bodies inherently self-destructive? Is life philosophically and metaphorically designed to be both regenerative and self-destructive? I'm uncomfortable being alive today; by that I don’t mean I'm suicidal, but that I'm uncomfortable being a living being (as we define ourselves and our existence). In many ways we are strange and foreign to ourselves. How can life exist if we are removed from the reality of our own existence? How can any one life be of use to others or worthwhile to our self if we are removed from ourselves in the ways we are? The more removed from our life we become the less meaning our life can or will have. The less meaning our life has the more we search distractedly for something to fill it up, which only reinforces our continued move away from reality.

originally posted January 2017
reposted March 2018

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