Demons and dreams

Of whom and of what indeed can I say: "I know that!" This heart within me I can feel, and I judge that it exists. This world I can touch, and I likewise judge that it exists. There ends all my knowledge, and the rest is construction. For if I try to seize this self of which I feel sure, if I try to define and to summarize it, it is nothing but water slipping through my fingers. I can sketch one by one all the aspects it is able to assume, all those likewise that have been attributed to it, this upbringing, this origin, this ardor or these silences, this nobility or this vileness. But aspects cannot be added up. This very heart which is mine will forever remain indefinable to me. Between the certainty I have of my existence and the content I try to give to that assurance, the gap will never be filled. Forever I shall be a stranger to myself. In psychology as in logic, there are truths but no truth. 

—Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus 

Sometimes I feel that my heart is bursting with love (or some such indefinable emotion). Sometimes I feel that nothing is working right, my thoughts aren't connecting, and I am dying a slow death. (In truth, we're all dying a slow death.) 

People have been telling me about 'meaning'. The things that should have meaning, but when reality intervenes they're not really meaningful. The things we think are great and good, but in stark light aren't that great. Basically: disillusionment. 

I understand that our efforts tend to fall short of what we want. I understand that our aims and goals tend to be unachievable in the face of reality. I understand that the picture we have in our mind and the scene before us—the sensations, the sounds, the smells—are almost always very different. 

Coming to terms with this is hard; but then again what is so hard about acknowledging the gap between what we assume, and what is real? Is it because it's painful to face up to ugly truths? Is it because we're convinced, utterly, that 'this' is the way things should be, and anything else is a betrayal of truth and goodness? 

In the past I used to think of these as desecrations, now I understand it is 'reality'. It doesn't mean that the world is evil, or that people are lazy and hopeless. It just means that we all have a lot going on in our lives—it's inevitable by definition—and we are all doing the best we can to survive. Sometimes we do better, sometimes worse. That's all. 

Of course, sometimes I get really angry. Some things I will not tolerate. Maybe these edges will be knocked in too, who knows.