Escapism

Plegh. that's enough about The Elder Scrolls for now. I need to clear my pallet. I've written as much about Saris Saryoni to fill a novel the same size as Shadowolf, which scares me. Plegh plegh. Ptooi.

Glad that's done with.

Merry Christmas, beings of Earth. I hope it's treating you kindly. Today I wish to discuss a certain problem I have that you may have too if you are extraordinarily unlucky. The problem - well, it's more of a foible to be honest - is that I really, really detest life on Earth in the 21st century. It's not that I can't see the good in the world, it is more that it is filled with so much repulsive evil that good can only be seen with an electron microscope.
That's the other thing: I'm a cynic. Of course most cynics consider themselves to be realists, but I'm not so sure I am one. The scientist has an effect on the experiment, after all, and my own personal perception of the world effects the truth behind it.

The trouble is that whether through locale or misfortune I have been exposed to the greasy underbelly of the world - heck, the greasy underbelly of the middle class world, which implies there's something even worse out there. I know people who have been raped. I know people who've died before their lives even began. I've played witness to countless affairs and divorces, and watched as people slip through the cracks, going insane or taking their own lives. Sure, there's love and understanding here and there, but it can get really hard to see.

Cynicism is my coping mechanism. If all this tragedy is centered around me and the rest of the world is free and happy, what could I have done to deserve the utter misery of lost hope, of constant dejection and melancholy inevitability? I can't see myself as the cause of tragedy, or my existence would imply suffering. Instead I recognise the disease has nothing to do with me; I'm merely one of the lucky immune who sit around and watch it spread. If it has nothing to do with me, it cannot be localised. Evil is everywhere. Cynicism is reality.

That said, life becomes a hard thing to cope with. This ocean of human debris floats around me, but I never seem to get wet. I have no substance. I cannot touch, only observe. I feel... empty.

There are limits to this sensation, or lack thereof. Physicality implies connection and conflict, after all. Where I can help people out I do, in whatever way possible. I avoid hurting people, or shoulder pain to save them from it. I'm not trying to be a saint. I'm not even trying to be good. I just need to believe that there can be something decent in the world, and the most readily accessible agent of change towards decency is the body directly under my control.

All too often, the physical world feels like a prison. I guess that's because of the emptiness - the feeling that I've been sequestered someplace where nothing I do is of any consequence. Freewill is marvelous, yes, but as we are often shown by pop culture it is worthless unless we are given options to go along with it. Sometimes I feel like I have all too much freewill, but not enough options. It's a little like what Tolstoy said about the course of history; we cannot stop the future from occurring, or swerve away from cyclical patterns. All we can do is change the manner in which we approach the curve, and the spirit in which we enter that forthcoming state. He demonstrated that theory with his 'Letter to a Hindu', later read by Gandhi and used to promote a non-violent revolution in India.

Physical options can be limited, and so mental ones are where I feel I can most safely express myself; thus reading, virtual reality, television. When you read you can colour a world with whatever perceptions you wish, because most often the scope of the characters is small and focused. You can write a world behind them completely unlike our own; for example you may see a fantasy world as a utopia where evil only threatens through singular agents and syndicates, or where such perversions as rape are dealt with with equal severity to murder. Fiction gives possibility; it breaks out from the web of singular red moments on Earth. In fiction as on Earth we have freewill, but infinitely more important we are given the option of perceiving the world how we want it without resorting to delusions or lies.

I find myself desperate to lose myself in other worlds, and this usually means virtual reality. I play computer games because they are vivid, they encapsulate the senses, and they are immediate. I cannot stress the importance of the last. Time is my oxygen, and without a steady supply I suffocate. I know this is a false perception, but it is one I cling to uncertainly. With time I hope to change this, and draw my focus upon books. I know I love books more. It is just that cultivating relationships with them takes more effort, and hard work does not come naturally to me. Dewey suggests work and play are essentially the same, but during the liminility of adolescence we separate them to make sense of the world, so that we know one is a fight and the other is fought for. In an ideal world both are treated equally. Earth is not an ideal world.

Merry Christmas folks, wherever you are. Stay decent.