taking myself to court to understand myself better
I’ve been watching a couple of TV shows where the main characters are lawyers. Contrary to my naive expectations I’m not any better at defending, let alone communicating, my thoughts, nor do I have a better enough understanding of the judiciary system that might be of any use (if future circumstances called for that). I’m realizing that the creators of these shows don’t really care about representation of lawyers in the media. Rather, the courthouse in the production studio is a mere prop for depicting the one or two other things the characters circumvent to show up to court each day. “Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” wrote Albert Camus. The characters playing lawyers simply deal with their lives so they can keep going to court. It is their cup of coffee, without which the character would have nowhere to go later on. There would be no TV show with lawyer main characters.
I’m aware how sacrilegious (mental hospital core) this perspective is and that it goes against the grind for so many other people, who see a higher purpose in life, for whom life is not a means to death but an end in itself. If I were to argue further in Camus’s defence I would remind these people that this is not what Camus meant, that he actually called for finding pleasure in between the stitches of life, notwithstanding knowing fully that the fabric will eventually read out their own death sentence once it's complete. “The literal meaning of life is doing whatever prevents you from killing yourself,” said Camus. However, I take no pride in knowing the depth of his philosophy, and as much as Camus would hate to hear this from someone who built him a shrine at his university, I am content with the superficial interpretation of this aphorism. It just works for me, and so be it.
The other half of me, however, can’t help but read the tea leaves. When I am confined in my solitude, say at night, the objects of my deliberation are nothing but only that I can see in the dark, my thoughts. I think, some would say I worry, so much about whether things are in my head or not, if I can change them, or if my (perceived) reality is out to get me. All this fuels my raging insomnia, and I can’t sleep until it’s light outside. I’m afraid my smoking habits have also gotten out of hand, since I have nothing to help me retain my calm in the quiet absence of stimuli. I’ve actually asked a couple of friends what they do to keep themselves busy during the summer, and all of them gave me roughly the same answer: consume media to sink time. Indeed, I’ve consumed more media this summer than I have since middle school, but I still find it hard to digress from my emotional distress. This reminds me of John Stuart Mill’s Theory of Higher and Lower Pleasures, where he argues that enjoying activities that engage the mind, such as me spiraling, is associated with a transcendent existence compared to the cardinal pleasures of watching TV. As much as I appreciate Mill’s altruism, his philosophy has not been a satisfactory consolation so far. I will kill myself if there’s no cup of coffee.
This summer, for me, thinking about things has mostly been me trying to make changes to things outside of me, almost as if I could move things with my mind. After I’ve spent some time in my mental courthouse, now almost a master of Socratic dialogues, I’ve come to realise that I am no Matilda, and that my mind possesses no higher order abilities to change things for the better. The primary reason that I’ve been hyperfocusing on anxiety inducing subjects is that I’ve been trying to change things for myself, things that I wish were different but unfortunately belong to the outside world. I’ve now accepted that there’s no such procedure, nothing to save me from my dread that I’ve consecrated on myself, mostly, if I’m being honest, by being overly cynical of everyone around me. Being cynical is perhaps my biggest flaw, by which I deny myself any outlet for experiencing anything good from human connections. What really is at the root of most, if not all, my anxieties? That between all the people I know – I am the only one looking out for myself? Maybe in some ways, but it wouldn’t be a resounding “no” as you’d hear if you asked me if I want to visit my grandparents house in the village. I think I’ll have to get out of my head for a change, and give people around me some credit, since they’d brought me so much of the happiness I reminisce about when I’m not deluding myself with my paranoia. I’ve just realized that I might have to lower my guards, not entirely, but just enough to allow myself to feel loved and cared for.