Something is happening to me and I cannot fully grasp what I am feeling, a combination of exhilaration and depression, of intellectual maturity and madness all at the same time. I am at the very beginning stage of what I feel must be a transformation. A seed has been planted. I have decided that I will remove myself for the entire month of December, to patiently assess this change in solitude and silence, to fast and abstain and deeply re-think the course of my own trajectory and the meaning of my own existence.
After being caught for so long in my own subjective landscape, trapped by powerful emotions, self-pity and indulgence, I feel as though I am ready to courageously seek my ‘purpose’ and it was through my travels to Syria/Turkey that this was awakened. I was so overwhelmed by what I saw, the profound violence and hardship, people with cancer from chemical bombings, men without limbs, women and children burned, so much death, horror and misery. It was abysmal and I underestimated the impact seeing what I saw of the Syrian war would have on me.
In my anxiety, I gave away all my money, could not sleep, felt emotionally hopeless and despairing and that shows to me a short, sharp failure at doing what I should have been doing. It mirrored, for the first time, the meaning of my life because I realised I was not doing what I should have been for a very long time. The question is, what was it that I should be doing? I need time and self-reflection to answer that.
I am not talking about something simple. This is life. My actual life, the deep and profoundly existential responsibility I have to respecting it and I don’t think I really understand what that actually means to me. I have undermined this genuine question about the reality of my life and what it actually means. I need deep reflection. I will therefore be shutting down from 1st December – 10th January and escaping into solitude, the Henry David Thoreau way.
I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it; and that is no more I than it is you. When the play, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned. This doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.