Without Purpose

What was once deemed worthwhile, noble even, now feels pointless. Not the change your meds kind of emptiness, but rather the kind that feels like an epiphany. What does it really mean to matter? What was the impulse that drove me forward, like a slave at the oars? The scars on my back are my own creation, and the ship was never moving. I dedicated a large part of my life to philosophy, theology, history, and literature. Even when my interest waxed and waned with the natural vicissitudes of life, I treated intellectual pursuits as an almost sacred duty. But why? Philosophy, as I’ve said before, is masturbatory. It does little more than feed the ego. Theology is a fool’s errand, an embarrassing waste of life and an insult to reason. History is written by the victors and might as well be read as speculative fiction. Literature and poetry (the icing on top) are diversions. The question before me now is what am I going to do about it? I could treat it all like a child who has outgrown his…