in defense of darkness
19 Jul 2004

There is a sort of idea formed about the notion of living. This idea is 
completely ensconced in the misleading assumption that life is something 
you will embrace wholeheartedly. If you question this devotion to 
slaphappy existence, are ill and they’ll sigh, “Where did we go wrong?” 

Thus begins the cycle of pills and guilt and anger and maybe a razor or a 
month’s Prozac in one hour. The rest of this precious gift is wasted 
fighting tooth and nail to understand why you’re the only one who doesn’t 
seem to want it.

But suppose briefly- I do not ask you to reassess your world view, who has 
time for that?- suppose that the ones who see the gray side and the dark 
corners are the ones who got it right. Suppose that only an idiot would look 
upon this poor scrabbling attempt to exist in a cruel, unforgiving lump of 
dirt and rock as a gift.

Consider the scratchy wool sweater from Grandma. Your mother praises the 
quality and expects you to wear it every time Grandma visits. You think this 
demand is horse shit. The sweater is ugly and uncomfortable and why can’t we 
just admit that?

There is skill in daily living. I recognize that. I also accept that it isn’t 
a skill which comes easily to me. Long division and how to wake up, start the 
day, accomplish various moneymaking tasks, and juggle personal fulfillment are 
concepts I never quite mastered. But can you climb to ecstatic heights of self 
adoration, begin to question the notion of thoughts and the possible existence 
of separate universes within each human skull, despair at the speed which 
hurtles you ever faster towards mindless decay, and decide to imbibe a quart 
bottle of whiskey to slow the ceaseless barrage of thoughts and impulses? Could 
you do all those things within an hour? Perhaps on lunch break.

And yet, at the end of the day (that notorious time: the shivering, chattering, 
pleading time), we wish we were like you, don’t we. All of us sad sacks and 
cynics, realists and dreamers. We certainly don’t want the quiet assurance, 
even when everything else has gone to shit, that at least we know the truth.