The Collapse of All Possible Alternatives

It probably surprises few that a mid-twenty something person such as myself would be faced with an existential dilemma (especially since I write about this about once every 5 months). Truth be told, I’d rather be faced with such philosophical upheavals than to not be – I feel that numb contentment forebodes far worse underlying pathologies than the occasional (or constant) battles with the curse of consciousness.

This afternoon I sat down and started writing unrelated sentences on a piece of blank paper, attached to a clipboard. The clipboard is important, I never use a clipboard unless I’m doing something worthy of such a dignified container. Eventually I came down to two questions: What do I want to do, and who do I want to be?

They’re not really questions with answers, so I thought the best I could do was start writing down lists of what I do now and who I am now. The “do” list was brief. If a group of ten of my friends were to sit down together and come up with a list of all things that Eric Furst does (my various modes of existence, if you will), they’d probably only come up with 8-10 serious ones. Probably 20 or 30 ridiculous ones, but my activities can be easily distilled to the core subset. Then, however, came the “Who am I?” list. One hundred contradictory and paradoxical adjectives and small phrases later, I decided that whatever I am, I’m not that because of any conscious set of instructions from my brain. I am not in control of it.

A half hour later, as I sat on the couch reading my book (The Black Swan), on the very first page of the day I stumbled upon “Indeed, many severe psychological disorders accompany the feeling of loss of control of – being able to make sense of – one’s environment.” As I sat there, amused by the coincidence and its implied, though not necessitated, conclusion, I began gazing at the TV. Which was off.

Our TV, you probably don’t remember, is a window to the outside world. Outside someone was mowing their lawn. I watched them in the TV, wondering who it was. I thought that perhaps I should turn around and look out the window. But, I continued, then I’d be reducing the countless possibilities into one truth, a truth that was sure to be disappointing compared to what I imagined. As I sat, eyes glazed, pondering the truths of the world through the lens of a television that wasn’t even on, I was struck by my mind’s capacity to create its own version of reality, when really there is only one true reality that exists. Perhaps more interesting is the concept of not wanting to know that one truth, as it means the destruction of the myriad truths of our own creation.

Eventually I turned around and looked out the window. The person I saw mowing her lawn was a flag waving gently in the breeze. The mower was somewhere off frame.