Justifying My Existence

An excerpt from my novel, Diary of a Heretic:

For years I adhered to the idea that if I lived spartanly and maintained hope, a day would come when I would metaphorically if not actually be invited to speak my mind.  And someone would listen. Someone would understand.

The way I imagined it:  When you were called upon to speak, you were supposed to say why you think you’re alive, why you were born, and why you’re still around: What are your reasons? Everyone needs to come up with his or her own personal answer.

After all, no one gets through life without having to justify his or her existence. The biggest problem is that there is so much stuff we don’t know how to talk about. At least in my experience, whenever I ask someone: Does it ever hit you how weird, how really extreme it is being a person, this thing, yourself? Generally whoever I’m asking is like: “What are you talking about?”

Oh, occasionally someone quick, who was actually listening to me, will say:  “Well, maybe it is weird being you . . ”

A response that’s lighthearted and clever, but ducks the question.  As if it’s gauche to ask, let alone answer:  “Why am I alive? What’s the point?”

People hate to admit their ignorance. They would rather cling to theories that are, in fact, very hard to believe, but for them, I guess, easier than saying, “Duh? I don’t know,” their whole lives.

Personally, I think that special people, who work at it constantly, do get a clue. It’s just that they’re so rare and their hard-won intimation so cryptic everyone else thinks they’re crazy.

Perhaps the best you can do is: ignore the odds. Hope and pray that the impetus behind your actions glides along an invisible, parallel course exerting a distinct pull. Grasp it and you’ll have an answer.

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