Joined
·
29 Posts
I'm going to keep this brief. I've been quite heavily into MBTI for the past four years or so, and perhaps I'm taking this way too seriously, but I cannot for the life of me determine which type I am. I started out thinking I was an INTJ for a year or two, before I "converted" to INTP - which is what I've believed I am for a good two years now. However, if I am totally honest with myself, something has always felt just a bit off about it. I'm 99% sure I'm INxx and perhaps 80% sure I'm not an INFP. But I also feel I'm not emotional and caring enough to be an INFJ? Anyway, I thought that instead of just listing self-perceived characteristics, I would ask you all (very kindly) to read a philosophical ramble of mine and see which type "feels" right to you. I'm eighteen years old, by the way, if that's of any help (yes, I realise I'm young).
So, here's a look into my mind:
"Every so often, I am struck by this intense feeling, or sensation rather, of derealisation. It strikes me at the most inopportune times, hands cupping a hot cup of tea or when writing a paper for school. What is it that we're all doing here? What even is this? Reality seems to drop away. Or rather, I seem to drop away, and the world is but a mirage, a dream. Lucid dreaming. When you know you're dreaming, you know that none of it matters anyway. I feel disillusioned. Tricked. And coupled with that indescribable sensation of derealisation, comes a certain dread: Why is it that we do what we do? We go about our daily routine, our tasks and chores, our commitments—but for what? In the end, it is all for naught, right?
These thoughts usually come to me at night, and I can't help but feel that this is when my mind is the clearest, talking to me with candour, when all my barriers are down. It's almost as though the shields my brain has put up to protect me, come down, and in floods the truth, filling me paradoxically with both crippling hopelessness and immense hope. Another metaphor: Your life and your mind, your existence, is a darkened house. There are windows, but they're covered by shutters. There might be a few candles here and there, but they don't illuminate the whole house, and you're left mostly in the dark. You find meaning in the menial tasks you perform in this house, since you don't know any better. At night, however, the someones or somethings holding the shutters in place, get tired, and so the shutters fall away, and in spills the light, the truth. You catch a glimpse of the outside and realise how limited you are in your silly house. It might be warm and comfortable, but when you've realised there's more to life than that humdrum house, it feels almost unbearable. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust and the miserable linoleum floor (orange and brown) is littered with garbage. The ambiguous outside is tantalising, albeit scary and confusing. (I just realised that this in many ways resembles Plato's cave allegory.) Anyway, when we sleep, the "people" whose job it is to hold the shutters in place, rest with us, and in the morning, they're yet again strong enough to hold the shutters in place for another day, and in the dark again (literally), we return to our ignorance, our routine. Perhaps this is why I feel so englightened now—for lack of sleep?
Putting these feelings and thoughts into text somehow minimalises them, weakens them, as language has the tendency to do with our thoughts and feelings. But I must do it still. It seems important, and there is something rare and palpable about text that cannot be found many other places.
It seems that most of the time, we do things to avoid something and not to actually accomplish anything. Our thoughts are almost always focused on the things we must avoid. Have you noticed that? We act according to societal norms to avoid rejection, becoming outcasts. We're always afraid of something, that's what it is. Naturally, on the opposite side of this fear, is the thing we we want, but the more I think about it, I realise that I don't really wish for the approval of total strangers or other things of that nature. Not rationally. They're just getting in the way of the things I actually want, cluttering my mind with their incessant primitive babble of fear.
We walk through life mostly oblivious of why we do the things we do. Because we just have to, we say, defending our petty chores, our narrow, boring routine. We try to acommodate the people around us, become one with the others. That's what life is all about, like it or not. In order to have that hour in front of the television after work, those two weeks of relaxation in the summer, playing beached ways in some warm climate, we must all do this boring stuff 90% of the time. How sick is that! What a cruel game!
And at the end, lying on our deathbed, with a lot of past and an ever-shrinking future, some might feel bitterness, regret, others contentedness—and most will agree upon the fact that those who feel content have somehow won at this thing we call Life. Contentedness? Is that what this will amount to? We look at that clouded, dreamlike (or nightmarish) Past and think, Huh, I did an okay job at this. Not too bad. I'll give myself a pat on the shoulder! Is that all we get? It seems like some kind of sick practical joke, really, and I am certainly not content with that. I feel a bit cheated, and as I'm writing this, I resolve to do something about it. But of course, the shutters might be slammed back in place any moment, and I'll go back to my mostly mindless existence, worrying, doing to avoid and not to accomplish.
I'm also struck by the fleetingness of the present, of the moment. Does the moment even exist? I mean, it seems to me more like this: The past continuously swallowing the future. With each word I write, the past grows larger, the opportunities diminishing. The present doesn't actually exist—it's just the edge of the bloated, and ever-swelling, past.
This is my view of time: We pace the timeline, never able to stop, forced forward by the invisible force called Time, but perhaps able to slow down or speed up (?), very rarely conscious of time itself, the mounting Past and the shrinking Future. Walking through life trying to be as comfortable as possible. Because that's what life is about for most people. Comfort. (Tangent: Comfort?! I for one believe we only have one chance at this thing called Life, and we spend it trying to be as comfortable as possible. What a waste! Or?) Anyway, back to the cloudy Past, the fleeting or perhaps non-existent Present (depending on your view), and the uncertain Future. We go about life, often trying to make time pass, as we wait for something (Waiting for Godot grows with meaning as I write this!), Past mounting, Future shrinking with each passing moment.
I see the past in two ways: First, the depressing metaphor: the past is a cloudy, not quite palpable substance, tailing us and growing larger with every moment, not quite real, but still there, slowing us down, showing in our grey hair, wrinkled skin, murkiness of our eyes and general decay. Not really a part of us, but still tainting us, altering what we will do in the future. Events that might seems important at the time, wane, becoming one with the cloudy Past, everything flattening, becoming unimportant, monotonous—it's not much in the big picture, people will say, as time passes and that embarrassment they felt when tripping in front of a crowd, no longer makes them cringe—no, I disagree; it has nothing whatsoever to do with "the big picture", instead it has everything to do with the present, the very small picture, the tiniest, most subjective picture possible! Seen clearly, the past is a terrifying thing, and isn't it interesting that it is at night (when your mind is clearest, but also most vulnerable), that your past also becomes clearest, when your daily routine gives way to the truth. You are perhaps filled with regret at those times, cringing at past embarrassments. Our mind protects us against this thing called the Past. If it didn't, we would go insane. Or would we? Isn't it just keeping us in check, stopping us from really seeing things in perspective? Realising with full clearity how oblivious we actually are?
The second, slightly more optimistic metaphor describing the past is as follows: We are born, continuously pacing the timeline, but as we walk, the past doesn't tail us; we swallow the past as we go, like some weird video game (Pac-Man, basically), and it's all about picking out what one wants to include in one's mind. We choose the past by controlling the fleeting present and the uncertain future. Or, the three control each other in a way. It's very confusing. A sort of snowball effect.
Anyway, something else, that to me seems fundamentally wrong: Since we are always doing things to avoid, life is always about maintaining things. Maintaining our health, social circle, family, what have you. As our snowball grows and things get stuck to it (new friends, new hobbies), we fight to keep them all stuck to the damn snowball. Life is essentially about getting a really big snowball. So when the Grim Reaper comes knocking, you'll have something to show for your endavours. I realise how crazy this sounds, but in a general sense, it is very true.
And those who don't maintain all those things that get stuck to their snowball are frowned upon by society. Those who don't juggle a million balls at once. People who can't keep friends, people who neglect their health and home and garden, and who jump from one thing to another. We tend to think that those who aren't in the business of Maintaining the Different Aspects of Their Life, live a pointless life, nothing ever amounting to anything. But how are the people who maintain any different? Why are we maintaining these things in the first place? To look back on life with contentedness? For fear of that final regret, perhaps? There it is again—fear, permeating ever nook and cranny of our life. There's a sort of desperation to it, a desire to fill every moment with something productive, something that will amount to something, but that never does—and if it does, what does it matter if it doesn't lead to happiness? We are simultaneously trying to pass time and clinging to it with every fibre of our being.
But why am I bothering with these thoughts? Is it even possible to escape the house that is our humdrum existence? It is the possibility of escape that fills me with hope, but if this isn't possible, I think perhaps I prefer the ignorance and oblivion of the snug, dimly lit house, the safety of small dreams, comfortable warmth and routine. Living with the constant temptation of the grand outside—the drabness of the house harshly contrasted against it—seems almost unbearable in the long run. Perhaps it's time for the shutters to be put back in place so I can return to Maintaining."
Thanks!
- whisperlumos
So, here's a look into my mind:
"Every so often, I am struck by this intense feeling, or sensation rather, of derealisation. It strikes me at the most inopportune times, hands cupping a hot cup of tea or when writing a paper for school. What is it that we're all doing here? What even is this? Reality seems to drop away. Or rather, I seem to drop away, and the world is but a mirage, a dream. Lucid dreaming. When you know you're dreaming, you know that none of it matters anyway. I feel disillusioned. Tricked. And coupled with that indescribable sensation of derealisation, comes a certain dread: Why is it that we do what we do? We go about our daily routine, our tasks and chores, our commitments—but for what? In the end, it is all for naught, right?
These thoughts usually come to me at night, and I can't help but feel that this is when my mind is the clearest, talking to me with candour, when all my barriers are down. It's almost as though the shields my brain has put up to protect me, come down, and in floods the truth, filling me paradoxically with both crippling hopelessness and immense hope. Another metaphor: Your life and your mind, your existence, is a darkened house. There are windows, but they're covered by shutters. There might be a few candles here and there, but they don't illuminate the whole house, and you're left mostly in the dark. You find meaning in the menial tasks you perform in this house, since you don't know any better. At night, however, the someones or somethings holding the shutters in place, get tired, and so the shutters fall away, and in spills the light, the truth. You catch a glimpse of the outside and realise how limited you are in your silly house. It might be warm and comfortable, but when you've realised there's more to life than that humdrum house, it feels almost unbearable. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust and the miserable linoleum floor (orange and brown) is littered with garbage. The ambiguous outside is tantalising, albeit scary and confusing. (I just realised that this in many ways resembles Plato's cave allegory.) Anyway, when we sleep, the "people" whose job it is to hold the shutters in place, rest with us, and in the morning, they're yet again strong enough to hold the shutters in place for another day, and in the dark again (literally), we return to our ignorance, our routine. Perhaps this is why I feel so englightened now—for lack of sleep?
Putting these feelings and thoughts into text somehow minimalises them, weakens them, as language has the tendency to do with our thoughts and feelings. But I must do it still. It seems important, and there is something rare and palpable about text that cannot be found many other places.
It seems that most of the time, we do things to avoid something and not to actually accomplish anything. Our thoughts are almost always focused on the things we must avoid. Have you noticed that? We act according to societal norms to avoid rejection, becoming outcasts. We're always afraid of something, that's what it is. Naturally, on the opposite side of this fear, is the thing we we want, but the more I think about it, I realise that I don't really wish for the approval of total strangers or other things of that nature. Not rationally. They're just getting in the way of the things I actually want, cluttering my mind with their incessant primitive babble of fear.
We walk through life mostly oblivious of why we do the things we do. Because we just have to, we say, defending our petty chores, our narrow, boring routine. We try to acommodate the people around us, become one with the others. That's what life is all about, like it or not. In order to have that hour in front of the television after work, those two weeks of relaxation in the summer, playing beached ways in some warm climate, we must all do this boring stuff 90% of the time. How sick is that! What a cruel game!
And at the end, lying on our deathbed, with a lot of past and an ever-shrinking future, some might feel bitterness, regret, others contentedness—and most will agree upon the fact that those who feel content have somehow won at this thing we call Life. Contentedness? Is that what this will amount to? We look at that clouded, dreamlike (or nightmarish) Past and think, Huh, I did an okay job at this. Not too bad. I'll give myself a pat on the shoulder! Is that all we get? It seems like some kind of sick practical joke, really, and I am certainly not content with that. I feel a bit cheated, and as I'm writing this, I resolve to do something about it. But of course, the shutters might be slammed back in place any moment, and I'll go back to my mostly mindless existence, worrying, doing to avoid and not to accomplish.
I'm also struck by the fleetingness of the present, of the moment. Does the moment even exist? I mean, it seems to me more like this: The past continuously swallowing the future. With each word I write, the past grows larger, the opportunities diminishing. The present doesn't actually exist—it's just the edge of the bloated, and ever-swelling, past.
This is my view of time: We pace the timeline, never able to stop, forced forward by the invisible force called Time, but perhaps able to slow down or speed up (?), very rarely conscious of time itself, the mounting Past and the shrinking Future. Walking through life trying to be as comfortable as possible. Because that's what life is about for most people. Comfort. (Tangent: Comfort?! I for one believe we only have one chance at this thing called Life, and we spend it trying to be as comfortable as possible. What a waste! Or?) Anyway, back to the cloudy Past, the fleeting or perhaps non-existent Present (depending on your view), and the uncertain Future. We go about life, often trying to make time pass, as we wait for something (Waiting for Godot grows with meaning as I write this!), Past mounting, Future shrinking with each passing moment.
I see the past in two ways: First, the depressing metaphor: the past is a cloudy, not quite palpable substance, tailing us and growing larger with every moment, not quite real, but still there, slowing us down, showing in our grey hair, wrinkled skin, murkiness of our eyes and general decay. Not really a part of us, but still tainting us, altering what we will do in the future. Events that might seems important at the time, wane, becoming one with the cloudy Past, everything flattening, becoming unimportant, monotonous—it's not much in the big picture, people will say, as time passes and that embarrassment they felt when tripping in front of a crowd, no longer makes them cringe—no, I disagree; it has nothing whatsoever to do with "the big picture", instead it has everything to do with the present, the very small picture, the tiniest, most subjective picture possible! Seen clearly, the past is a terrifying thing, and isn't it interesting that it is at night (when your mind is clearest, but also most vulnerable), that your past also becomes clearest, when your daily routine gives way to the truth. You are perhaps filled with regret at those times, cringing at past embarrassments. Our mind protects us against this thing called the Past. If it didn't, we would go insane. Or would we? Isn't it just keeping us in check, stopping us from really seeing things in perspective? Realising with full clearity how oblivious we actually are?
The second, slightly more optimistic metaphor describing the past is as follows: We are born, continuously pacing the timeline, but as we walk, the past doesn't tail us; we swallow the past as we go, like some weird video game (Pac-Man, basically), and it's all about picking out what one wants to include in one's mind. We choose the past by controlling the fleeting present and the uncertain future. Or, the three control each other in a way. It's very confusing. A sort of snowball effect.
Anyway, something else, that to me seems fundamentally wrong: Since we are always doing things to avoid, life is always about maintaining things. Maintaining our health, social circle, family, what have you. As our snowball grows and things get stuck to it (new friends, new hobbies), we fight to keep them all stuck to the damn snowball. Life is essentially about getting a really big snowball. So when the Grim Reaper comes knocking, you'll have something to show for your endavours. I realise how crazy this sounds, but in a general sense, it is very true.
And those who don't maintain all those things that get stuck to their snowball are frowned upon by society. Those who don't juggle a million balls at once. People who can't keep friends, people who neglect their health and home and garden, and who jump from one thing to another. We tend to think that those who aren't in the business of Maintaining the Different Aspects of Their Life, live a pointless life, nothing ever amounting to anything. But how are the people who maintain any different? Why are we maintaining these things in the first place? To look back on life with contentedness? For fear of that final regret, perhaps? There it is again—fear, permeating ever nook and cranny of our life. There's a sort of desperation to it, a desire to fill every moment with something productive, something that will amount to something, but that never does—and if it does, what does it matter if it doesn't lead to happiness? We are simultaneously trying to pass time and clinging to it with every fibre of our being.
But why am I bothering with these thoughts? Is it even possible to escape the house that is our humdrum existence? It is the possibility of escape that fills me with hope, but if this isn't possible, I think perhaps I prefer the ignorance and oblivion of the snug, dimly lit house, the safety of small dreams, comfortable warmth and routine. Living with the constant temptation of the grand outside—the drabness of the house harshly contrasted against it—seems almost unbearable in the long run. Perhaps it's time for the shutters to be put back in place so I can return to Maintaining."
Thanks!
- whisperlumos
