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Don Quixote Has Died

I used to feel akin to Don Quixote, the somewhat addled but noble, diligent, and caring fellow in the stage play "Man of LaMancha". I used to believe that dreaming dreams, tilting at windmills and fighting for what is good, just, and true was the way to live life. Even though many of his battles were impossible... his spirit, his conviction to persevere made even losing of the fight something that was valuable and for the greater good.

That feeling, that belief, of nobility in struggling for what is just and right, the struggle for the greater good... has left me. I feel nothing. I am a used, spent shell. What pray-tell is the purpose of life? Is it to only witness death? That is all... death is the end game of our time here, and so I ask again... Why, for what purpose? Is there any purpose? There seems to be none. All of "life"is simply a march towards death. And the latter part of life is spent filled with the tortured ripping away of the connections of those whom you love and who love you.

You spend the first part of life finding out how to love, how to appreciate, how to nurture those fragile connections of love and devotion. You then spend the majority of the latter of your days having those connections torn from you, the yanking out your emotional innards more deeply with each and every death... in agonizing torture and pain. Each death is akin to having an advanced case of leprosy... part of your being is lost, much like the leper will lose a limb, or an appendage as the disease progresses. Death finally overcomes you, when so much of your own body has been lost due to the decay that is caused by the unrelenting grief.

I am not crying out because my experience is unique, for it is not. It is what all of us DO. We may deceive ourselves into thinking we have jobs, careers, hobbies, goals, and life. But we do not. We have nothing, except an excruciating march towards the final conclusion. The conclusion is not of our own chronology or being... but instead our conclusion is by each added death of those we cared about. And for most of us, the end of our own mortal flesh is nothing... except the fodder to allow another chink to develop in the armor of someone still alive for whom we love. It is this damage to the armor of a person's being that eventually causes their demise. For those whom love us our death serves only to add to their decay. It is inevitable and unstoppable, for as they themselves grow ever more aware of the futile effort that we euphemistically call "life", they themselves are preparing for their own end.

Does "it" or "anything" matter? At this point, I see no real purpose. I see no real hope. I feel no real life. Instead, I am just a void. I am zero.

The sooner I embrace this reality, perhaps the sooner it will not hurt so, to have loved and lost. It has been said that it is "better to have loved and lost, rather than to never have loved at all", but it sure as hell does not feel better.

PipeTobacco