I was asked yesterday by a close friend what is the point of living. To be quite frank, at the moment I was intoxicated and was unable to reply anything but mutter the meaningless phrase "talk to me if you need it"; because my initial reaction was that he considered suicide.
Though the scare that he might actually consider taking his life is cleared, I couldn't help but still ponder his question. Was I unable to give an answer because I was intoxicated or was I unable to give an answer. Period.
The truth is, I have been up for 3 hours today, and all I have done is idling, wandering from place to place, doing nothing but satisfying some of my basic needs as a human being.
I don't want to blame this idling that has been consuming the past two weeks of my life on the fact that I am somehow "forced" to be alone in an environment that so closely resembles confinement; because that would imply that this idling is given to me and I have no choice but to silently accept it and pretend that, at this moment, there is a point to my livelihood.
People has discussed and always will discuss, even fight in a heated argument, the point of living and if our mundane activities, in fact, have significances in the flow of history.
I rather not look beyond this period of idling and shout out empty words, saying how I will be making a point of my living by doing so and so; because opportunities come in the most random occasions and none of the talks will make sense even if I plan out my life in a hundred and one ways.
Even if this sentiment can be interpreted as negative and depressed, I nonetheless wonder, within this period of time before I take off for Japan, if my life at this moment has a point.
Waking up only to find emptiness within my skull and every cell in my body; making plans only so I can go back at night and think how hollow those plans are. It is quite pathetic.
They haunt me though.
This emptiness that consumes me, nonetheless, reminds me how there is the possibility of change; and it pains me, as if a sharp needle is slowly and fervently piercing the back of my neck, and threatens to eventually open an empty, hollow hole in my throat and take my life.
It pains me, because I can change. I can use all this time to do something much better than idling, than whining. I can learn something. I can do something. I can improve something.
And it pains me, because I am not doing any of those things.
Rather, I idle.
