Sometimes one has to wonder, what is the point of it all?
Of course many argue there is no room for existentialism in a Marxist’s life style, and I am inclined to agree. But when left alone with a hyperactive mind, one can’t help but be tempted to wonder. Since embracing my Communist identity I still find myself wondering at times, and while the wondering remains the nature of my mind’s wondering has changed. I no longer ask “Who am I?” or “What am I doing?” I now wonder, “What results will all of this yield?”
As a member of the DSA I am a part of a goal and project oriented organization, which does not yield much time for existential disposition. Generally, though not to universalize, one joins a socialist organization with a fairly strong sense of who they are. Yet when one is marching, meeting, planning, and scheduling, there are moments in between where I am left asking, “What will happen at the end of it all?” I plan on organizing until I can organize no more, so when the day finally comes and I meet my maker I wonder, what will have come from all I have tried to do here and now in this capitalist world?
It is not an egomaniacal concern about what my “legacy” will be. Or perhaps it is. Maybe this is all just an ego’s ramblings from a young writer unsure about his direction in life and what his efforts will yield.
Perhaps this is just paranoia from my constant indulgence into cannabis.
In any-case, I am not worried. No matter what happens, no matter when my life and organizing comes to an end, I operate around a simple Greek proverb, “Great people plant trees whose shade they know they will never sit it.”
In Fourteen Hundred and Ninty Two
Colombus sailed the ocean blue.
He raped and killed
As much as he willed
and white people know this to be true.
I’m a straight white male, and a sociopath, but I repeat myself.
Sex is filthy! but only if you do it right.
Love is like a fart, if you have to force it, it’s shit.
Texts are like modern day telegrams without the little guys in the suits. The odds that anyone reading this knows what a telegram is are worse than a horse race next to a glue factory.