The POINT of It All.

"Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?" by Paul Gauguin

It's probably the one question that's remained constant since the first caveman stood on his hind legs and began wanking. It'll probably be the last question the last man (or woman, let's not be sexist here) thinks before the earth:
a)  ends in a nuclear holocaust
b) gets zapped by creepy crawlies from outer space
c) is swallowed up by the sun's death throes
d) which actually is the galactic equivalent of salmon roe, gets gobbled up by a patron in a cosmic sushi bar

The question is, WHAT'S THE POINT OF IT ALL? It's a question that bugs me more often than not and now is one of those times. There's nothing like a long weekend, brought about by a bout of Friday illness, to turn one's mind to existential angst.

Seriously though, what's the point of it all? What's the point of waking up every morning, of dragging yourself to a job you either hate or are ambivalent about, just to make money to pay bills that you often generate in the course of your work? (After all, what's the main use of the car, other than ferrying you to work every day? How many business lunches does that gold card pay for?)

What's the point of getting into relationships, of getting married, of having kids if it only means that you're gonna spend the rest of your life struggling and slogging to ensure that your kids have the kind of middle-class upbringing and middle class education and middle-class approach to life that will only ensure that they too face more of the same challenges and problems and heartaches that face you now?

What's the point of going to your church/temple/mosque and pay your dues to God when there is no proof whatsoever that He/She/It is even listening? When's the last time that God came down from high to prove beyond a doubt that He/She/It exists and cares about what goes on in this globe?

Upon reflection, it sucks to live a middle class existence. Being born rich is, of course, brilliant. To want for nothing, to be able to live a life of indolence and never to have to worry about bills, or think twice about taking that family vacation or to have to save for a bloody year to afford a new TV set - that would be absolutely awesome. Yep, the rich have it good.

 Having been poor - and I mean really poor - I'd say one of its saving graces is that the hardscrabble existence leaves little time for any thoughts of a philosophical bent. Your thoughts are occupied by the here and now, as in, where do I go for my next meal and how do I make sure I have a roof over my head this time next month.

What's really fucked up about the middle class existence is that a person in this lifestyle, more than any other, is like a hamster caught in one of those fucking exercise wheels. There's simply no escaping it.

You want to leave your country and start over? Well, who's gonna take care of your aging parents? How are you gonna clear up your bills before you leave?

You want to leave the job you hate and pursue your life's dreams? Is it gonna pay as much as the job you hate? Is it even gonna cover the bills?

You want to learn a new language/skill/hobby? Can you fit it in between work/family/social commitments? Can you afford to give up those 14 overtime shifts in order to take up that Spanish course you always wanted?

Is this why, perhaps, that so many members of the middle class get caught up in movies/cigarettes/booze/drugs/etc? Each of these things, for better or worse, provides escapism, even if for a little while. And who could blame a person for wanting to escape the depressing humdrum existence that is the norm for most of us? Who doesn't want a life of pleasure, of adventure, of excitement, of deep insight and revelation, even if it's only for 2 hours and then too, only through chemical inducement?

Fuck it lah. Maybe life is just like Elbert Hubbard said - one damn thing after another. Or maybe it's more like Edna St. Vincent Millay's take - one damn thing over and over. Or maybe the point and purpose of life is closer to Agent Smith's opinion - "to end".

Edvard Munch thought life was a scream.