Authenticity v. 1.0
There are times where we question our nature, our personality. We tend to venture into a realm of wondering, “Is this the real me?” or “What really makes me, me?” I have had bits of pieces of sitting and questioning the composure of my being. I’m starting to think that this is what has always gotten me into trouble.
Upon doing more research on Sartre, I have seemed to dug a hole into a self-fortified prison. Following the trails of my life, it’s a bit ironic that I have ended up in the place where I started. Sartre was the first philosopher I stumbled upon; the first one that opened my perspective to this realm of philosophy. The one act of No Exit was the piece I read in theatre and found much relation to. Reexamining it last week, I found a plethora of chuckles at the inauthenticity of the characters stuck together in hell, that they were the bringers of their own torture through the examination of another’s eyes. Then there was a pause. Haven’t I always done the same thing? Aren’t I the one who wants to interact with others and have some sort of approval to authenticate my being, to prove to myself I am not stuck in a world of delusion?
Hell is other people, indeed.
I was fine when I had authentication only through myself, but this only left me with a sense that I was some selfish existence and left me questioning what am I really if I am only a vehicle for my own existence with total disregard for the external beings of the world? Insert emotional insecurity. Insert a sense of needing to belong somewhere. You can only come home so many times to an empty closet-like living space without even a damn cat to keep you company without questioning what you’re really living for. Insert throwing your being into the responsibility of a legal relationship, without much regard for your own self. Insert sacrificing some of the things you want to do and be in order to strengthen a tie that still makes you human.
Insert a backlash of being a slave.
Upon reading Nausea, this is where I had my first breakdown. This is where the individual is highlighted through seeing that things exist, but a sense of meaning is lost, where things you’ve previously known are so dramatically changed, you question if any type of notion can be stable. You wonder whether time is your enemy or best friend. How much can I truly be my own being while also being connected to others in this world? Emotional tug-strings bring me to a level of debating what I’m even working towards, whether my presence is only an accessory to others or if it does hold a true place of value. Through my own ramblings of needing to be an individual, I think I may have converted the only compassionate people I know into narcissistic assholes.
We all need something to live for. The constant deterioration of things I have known, things that I have become comfortable with, brings me back to the notion of what I am really searching for. There are some solid truths in my heart, but other actions may have prevented their rematerialized nature. Now, it seems to be a point of wondering in what state of being, of acting, where I have been inauthentic to myself. What my true authenticity is remains to be a mystery. The closer it seems to get, the further away it actually is.
Of course we can’t know everything; but I wonder if we can really know anything.
You can’t have everything you desire. It almost seems as if we’re built in a sense where we must continue acquisition, whether that is material goods or emotional satisfaction, but we can never stay content in one moment for too long. Some sort of change always occurs. Some sacrifices must be made for one type of satisfaction, yet there will always be another part of you that yearns for the alternative choice. The thirst for knowledge. Still, I am left with a sense of feeling that my compassion is my weakness, that it is the very thing that leaves me vulnerable and unsuccessful. However, my resistance to external forces (a.k.a. being a stubborn ass) seems to be more of a crippling effect.
My authenticity is questionable; this leads to a questionable existence.
Metaphysical Parabola 