Even if I had never heard of Zen, it seems to be in the nature of life itself that anyone unwilling to simply accept the tyranny of existence must sooner or later stumble upon the deeply embarrassing fact that all phenomena are essentially illusory. It also seems to be in the nature of life that most bipeds would rather coexist with that tyranny than endure the horrifying truth. Horrifying and sobering, in the way that cold water is sobering if thrown directly into your face while you were trying to enjoy a nap.
The tyranny of life consists of this: life has only one real purpose, which is to keep itself alive. Everything beyond that, no matter how creatively, comically or fatally seriously invented by bipeds in the form of interpretations, meanings or grand cosmic concepts, belongs to the category of romantic fantasy and wishful thinking. Fortunately, it all works rather well as long as enough bipeds gather in a group and pretend their belief is the truth. Consequently, communal life runs most smoothly when everyone in the group diligently strengthens the same illusion. The shadow of this cheerful setup is cast by outsiders and rebels (such as myself) who cannot cozy up to group dogma and are therefore regarded as disturbances of the group’s precious peace. Either they are cast out as traitors, or they walk away voluntarily, muttering under their breath and going their own way (again, like myself).
The further one strays from groups and their projections, the more obvious the illusory nature of the so-called great games of bipeds becomes. Relationships, for instance, romantically rebranded as “love,” are nothing more than nature’s emotional manipulation to trick bipeds into copulation and family-building. Were it not for hormones and genetics creating chaos in the body’s chemistry, every romantically inclined heart would pause at least ten times before leaping into bed, and a hundred times before producing offspring. What bipeds, especially women, call “free will” and exalt as “divine creation of life” is nothing but a compulsion of nature. Most bipeds surrender helplessly to it, and helplessly produce children, as if playing some bizarre lottery where the jackpot is population explosion and psychological disorders. For not everyone who can reproduce actually should. Yet few bipeds think that far, lost as they are in the delusion of their own greatness and blind to the fact that they have absolutely no control whatsoever. Calling it “God’s plan” is simply another romantic delusion, since even religious fanatics have noticed by now that creation has been running on autopilot for quite some time.
Looking around today, I see that the Internet has created a space where any biped can type whatever into a keyboard and instantly declare it to be the truth. Facts are treated as unnecessary clutter, just as reality has always been treated as an inconvenient sideshow. Interesting, really, since centuries ago Dante Alighieri began his descent into hell with the signpost: “Abandon all hope, you who enter here.” Once you consider the possibility that this earthly stay is in fact purgatory, things suddenly make a lot more sense. Which is why I gave up hope decades ago and have managed much better ever since, letting life do whatever ridiculous thing it wants and trying to cope with the results. Sometimes it goes well, more often it does not.
For decades I have also watched with growing exhaustion as life assists me in dismantling construct after construct. It makes no difference how much energy, belief or trust I invest, life turns everything upside down with the determination of a bored child kicking over sandcastles. Blessed are the simple-minded, for they will never realize what a rotten trick life is playing on them. The rest of us, who have at least a vague notion that something odd is going on, are led through pain with or without children, with or without families. Life offers no reward whatsoever for being especially fertile. That idea is a comic fantasy of religion, which assumes divine pleasure is measured by obedience to biological dictatorship. Personally, I cannot manage it. I am acutely aware that I am a natural anomaly, never intended for mass production.
At least I am not entirely alone in my anomaly. Over the millennia there have always been a few others who stood outside life’s dictatorship and shook their fists at the gods. Which is of course absurd, though since everything is absurd it hardly matters. It simply is what it is.
So I live today in complete meaninglessness, practice patience like a bad hobby, and observe what direction this nonsense will eventually take. I have long abandoned the idea that some divine clown will appear at the hour of death to deliver the punchline of this moderately successful joke. In all this nonsense, there seems to be no tool that does not wear out and no insight that does not eventually turn into its own opposite. The path is not only stony, it is booby-trapped with the sort of malice usually reserved for slapstick comedies, only without the laughter track. Instead of avoiding traps, it seems more useful to trigger as many of them as possible, collecting failures as if they were trading cards. Welcome pain like a deranged masochist, and keep walking with holes in your heart while politely ignoring the blood trail behind you. And laugh. As often and as loudly as possible. No idea why, but it seems to throw life off balance. Humor has that effect. Grim humor. The blackest humor imaginable.