Some days there are other reasons. The taste of chocolate. Hugs. The precise angle of afternoon sunlight just at the edge of winter. Laughter. Responsibilities, and sheer bloody-mindedness. Those are the things that make you stop sometimes and think, yes, this is worth living for. But that's - transitory. There's a different one every day. Sometimes there aren't any at all. (Those are the days when it's all I can do to lie in bed and blink slowly, when the thought of actually enjoying anything ever again seems impossible. On those days I know that love existed once, but I can't feel it anywhere. Can you imagine not loving anything?) On those days I almost, almost think that I wouldn't mind so much if I just quietly stopped breathing. (Because at least then I wouldn't have to try anymore. Do you know how hard trying is?)
If I died I'd never know.
(Know what? Anything. Everything.)
what's it like to fly an airplane how are computer chips made will humans ever live on other planets or under the ocean what IS under the ocean anyway all of that darkness and pressure and silence there could be anything will robots ever achieve sentience (I think they will) how does my brain work what will I be doing in ten years what new species will be discovered and which ones will die out what was it like to be a cephalopod in the Cambrian (I'll never know the answer to that one and sometimes it keeps me up at night, like the fact that I'll never know what the first human language sounded like or what color dinosaurs were) I want to meet every human being who ever lived I want to know how many planets there are in the universe why is everything so inefficient how can I make it better how does it work who are you what is it what is it WHAT IS THIS
It's not a love of learning, though I sometimes call it that. If that's all it was it would disappear to the same place that my love of color and music go to, on those gray days. I don't really know what it is. I don't really know why I'm making this post, except that today I carved six lines into the soft skin on the inside of my arm, and I want you to know that it wasn't because I want to die.
This entry was originally posted at http://nianeyna.dreamwidth.org/18097.htm