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I’m not sure that I know the purpose of this blog.

Initially, I think I had intended it to be a hub for my rambling thoughts on the subject of life — the sudden death of my father in 2019 pushed my belief that life has no value to the top of my consciousness, and with it, my desire to write my way through my fear and doubts.

But no sooner had that thought bubbled to the surface than I found myself face to face with another realization, namely that I am rather dumb. Always have been. I knew next to nothing about philosophy or religion and concluded that I lacked sufficient, or any, understanding of these topics to write intelligently about them.

Faced with my ignorance, I gave up. Or rather, I decided that I ought to try and learn something of what the great thinkers had thought so as not to embarrass myself too badly when I set my own pen to paper. In the years since I have devoured nearly 300 books, and yet I feel no smarter, no wiser, no more intelligent. Instead, I am more convinced than ever that I need to write because, somehow, it is through writing that I will work my way through the intellectual and philosophical void that has become so central to my existence. Fundamentally, I want to know what the point of life is. I want to know how a person should occupy their time. I want to know what a person should do if what they do doesn’t matter.

So I have decided to write. Not because what I have to say is new or earth-shattering, or even insightful. I accept that I am a moron. A simpleton with simple ideas. I haven’t read every great philosopher, and, honestly, I haven’t necessarily understood the point of those I have.

But I am tired of feeling embarrassed by my stupidity and silenced by my ignorance. Thus I have concluded that there is no purpose served by this blog except to be a personal outlet for my rambling thoughts as I try and face my own mortality.

There is no purpose for this blog. It will be nothing more than a trail of breadcrumbs through my own tortured thoughts on the meaning of my life and the futility of my living. It will mark my passage through the cold dark waters of my insecurity and fear. It will stand as my attempt to answer my own question: if what I do doesn’t matter, why does it matter what I do?

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