The Illusory Void

We often hear it described as the quest for the meaning of life. But I think we're more familiar with it as a sense of being incomplete, bored, restless, depressed, aimless, or lost, or of not knowing who we really are. Whatever we call it, we're not who we feel like we should be.

The solutions range from palliatives like ceaseless activity or conversation, surfing the Internet, watching TV, reading, exercising, or drinking a little too much, to searching for a new religion, hoping or assuming another person (usually a new or lost partner) will end all disquiet, and ultimately various forms of suicide, either slow (like drugs) or immediate.

Throughout history all searching for a cure outside the stillness of one's own mind or consciousness has proven fruitless. Those who have found a sure sense of purpose in their religious faith first learned to be utterly content with precisely who they were inside. Their religion was a bonus, not a cure. It wouldn't be of the slightest use if they weren't ready to receive its comforts. On the contrary, it would merely disguise their lurking horror at the presumed abyss within and postpone their reckoning.

Most of us will never proceed directly to the desired point. Instead we have to try and fail at all alternatives because we can't believe the answer would be as simple as looking inside ourselves and realizing that we're already perfectly complete. There is no void, but we are conditioned by everything else in our experience to feel, behave, and believe otherwise. It requires the painful corrective of seeking solace in worthless and harmful alternatives before the fortunate and brave can return home to the perfection that has always been there, but so artfully hidden.