Sometimes, I write something in a comment in someone else's journal that is so loquacious and eloquent that I I wipe a tear from my proud face and lament that I hadn't written it in my own journal.
Not this time. I won't go into the specific nature of why this musing was constructed, but I thought I'd present it here for preservation and blatant self-indulgence.
I know the feeling. I got to that point a number of years ago. The feeling of going through motions, of pointlessness, of insignificance.
A wise man once called this the "throes of existential angst". The realization that our existence has no meaning and being frozen by the fear and panic this can cause. Giving up on any measure of action because of the perception that in the grand scheme of things, they have no consequence.
The extreme form of this is the sociopath and the suicide statistic.
But most people embrace it, eventually. There comes a point where you can't look away any longer and you have to stare down that abyss and accept it. Some people turn to religion for comfort, to find meaning to their lives and give purpose to their existence. Some people turn to blanket cyncism and bitterness, ruing the rest of their pathetic existence. Still others merely accept the insignificance and celebrate their brief blessing of life by enjoying it for the simple fact that they have it. I think most people reach a middle ground, a blend of the three; a dose of the sacred with a pinch of cynicism and a new found lust for life.
Regardless of the path, though, a person is frozen until they fully come to terms meaningless of their lives and the grave.
At least, that's my two cents.