Man is the most intriguing of beasts. He questions reality, enquires on his origin, his end, his purpose.
Manifestly expressing what might only be reserved for a creator. Like a God he postulates, he opines on these cosmic matters - on their enormity.
Yet at the end, like the sheep, the ox and the baboon (in fact all of Noah’s fucking Ark) he shits, pisses and burps.
Like a rat buzzing in for a dollop of sugar or better, cocaine - man has systematic, hard-wired and ubiquitous habits, impulses, inclinations and predilections.
God or beast then - or perhaps as Ernest Becker puts it - a God with an anus.
In the past 6-weeks I’ve questioned what has taken me away from writing…
Initially, it felt like the inevitable pull of nature - fatigue, boredom, burn out.
Or perhaps it’s something else - something more “human.”
As humans we have the distinct gift (or curse even) of being acutely aware of our mortality. Unlike the fellow riders of Noah’s Ark, we might be the only ones aware that we’re going to turn to dust.
And thus we have an urge to seek a “Causa Sui” or immortality project that will stamp our name on the world - knowing full well it might be the only thing that outlives our time.
For me, these immortality projects took the form of coffee and jiu jitsu. Writing on the other hand, took somewhat of a back seat.
For the past 6 weeks, it may be that my inner hero was drawn to other pursuits. Pursuits more tied to the hero systems intrinsic within our culture: sport and business.
Alas, if being human entails the intellect to think, consider and create - our immortality projects should be ones of our own choosing instead of being dictated by the impulses of the herd.
I don’t know if I’m to be a “writer” but perhaps if I strive for writing immortality I may well be.