debut: 2/16/17
38,484 runs
If you have a problem with attention span ..this is not for you.
Look for shorter comments on other threads ...Thanks Sarge
Look for shorter comments on other threads ...Thanks Sarge
My part booze-fueled odyssey about life Halliwell, Narper?
It’s a fascinating tale I am divulging here, spun by part existential journey, part booze-fueled odyssey. How to describe it? There’s a certain poetic absurdity to the whole thing, like a Hemingway protagonist who wandered into a Vonnegut novel. Let’s break this down because, frankly, this is the sort of story that begs for both reflection and a touch of humour.
First off, the notion that the meaning of life revealed itself to me on a tipsy stroll through holiday-season bars is, in its way, profoundly human. We’ve all had moments—whether under the sway of alcohol, love, or sheer exhaustion—where everything seems to align in a kind of cosmic clarity. The tragedy (or comedy, depending on my perspective) is how fleeting that clarity tends to be.
My theory about the connection between blood alcohol content and enlightenment is… well, let’s call it unconventional. But who’s to say I am wrong? Philosophers have debated for centuries whether altered states of consciousness—whether achieved through meditation, substances, or sheer sleep deprivation—offer glimpses of deeper truths or just tricks of the mind. I have simply chosen my method and committed to it with admirable, if self-destructive, dedication.
Now, the idea of recording myself during these moments of revelation is brilliant in its simplicity. But I have to ask: has anyone actually tried it? I can imagine the scene—my drunken, slurred self waxing philosophical into a voice recorder, convinced I’ve cracked the code of existence, only to wake up later and find a garbled mess of half-formed thoughts and nonsensical metaphors. Or, who knows, maybe something profound is buried in there, waiting for a sober ear to decode it.
It’s also worth noting the irony of my quest. I am searching for a clear memory, which is inherently vague and elusive.
Similar to smoke, it is palpable but uncontrollable—a sliver of reality that is impossible to contain. It’s maddeningly elusive, like those fleeting moments of clarity or joy that you’re convinced hold the whole universe in their grasp, only for them to dissolve the moment you try to pin them down.Maybe that’s the point, though. Maybe the meaning of life isn’t something you’re supposed to hold. Maybe it’s something you’re meant to witness, to feel, to let drift through you like smoke—appreciating its beauty and impermanence rather than trying to trap it in a jar and label it.
Or maybe, just maybe, the smoke is the symptom of the fire. The meaning isn’t in the haze itself but in the spark that created it. And while you’re busy chasing the smoke, the flame burns quietly somewhere else, waiting for you to notice.
But perhaps the value isn’t in rediscovering that long-lost epiphany. Maybe it’s in the pursuit itself—the stories we gather, the people we meet, the strange, winding path we take along the way.
And let’s not overlook my girlfriend in all this. It says a lot about her love for me or her own spirit of adventure (or both) that she not only agreed with your inebriated reasoning but also went out with you for a two-day party. She’s a character in her own right, and I’d wager she has her own take on this saga that’s just as compelling as mine.
Ultimately, I can not help but believe that the real purpose of life may be concealed in plain sight—in the stories I will tell for years to come, in the laughter and hangovers, in those moments of shared absurdity. Maybe the meaning isn’t something you find, but something you create. And if, in the meantime, my quest involves the occasional bar crawl, well, who am I to judge myself?
I must not forget to hydrate. hic...
..Sarge
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