- Dołączono
- 13 Gru 2020
Final post:
After following along, you should now briefly see that the times we live in are difficult, confusing and ultimately vein in a search for a meaning that isn’t actually there. I have bene on my own journey to attempt to fill this void with being busy. Let us delve into it.
Since I can remember, my life was defined by busyness. Not purpose whatsoever, busyness. There’s a distinct difference. After moving back to North Wales from university, in a vain attempt to prove myself that my lack of meaning was from being bored, I worked my arse off from sunrise to well past sunset, filling every possible minute with something. Not because I loved the work, not because I felt fulfilled by it, but because it was the only way I knew to keep my mind from spiralling into the void. I typically opened McDonald's as the sole manager, arriving at 5 a.m., managing shifts until 1pm. I would usually stay on as late as my boss would let me to the point where 4 p.m. was totally a typical leaving time. Depending on the day, I could get more or less hours. Regardless, upon being forced “home” I then went straight to the gym across the road. I would work out for about an hour and do a half hour of cardio. After that, I was off to Domino's for my second job as a delivery driver until late into the night. I didn’t need the money. At all. I had more enough to get by. I believed the noise, the constant movement, would provide me with something to do. Additionally, I believed I would be able to obtain even a miniscule amount of praise from others.
I didn't stop. Ever. If you know anyone, I have ever worked with they will attest to my unhealthy obsession with this. There wasn’t a second for reflection, for thought. And for a while, I have to admit it partially worked. The dull grind of the everyday kept the misery, the emptiness, at bay. As long as I was moving, I didn’t have to confront what was really going on inside my head. I'd go to bed, wake up, and start again, because doing anything was better than doing nothing and letting the weight of existence hit me. The gym was the only thing that brought a sliver of satisfaction. It wasn’t about health, or looks, or even strength. It was just another way to burn through time. Another way to tire myself out to the point where I could collapse at the end of the day. My Xbox achievement hunting was another distraction, a pointless grind that gave me a fleeting sense of accomplishment. I would play games I didn’t like, with people I didn’t know, to simply increase my number on the screen. None of it mattered. It was all about staying busy, chasing after a false sense of purpose, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if I kept running long enough, I’d eventually catch or fall into something meaningful.
And then, in the middle of this pit of emptiness, C%%% came into my life. She didn’t interrupt my routine so much as force me to acknowledge how utterly pointless it all was. Instead, she slid into it nicely. As we worked together, and I had access to the staff rota, I knew when we were both on or off. She convinced me to stop the extra work (something I didn’t do totally but I did slow down), telling me to spend more time with her. I think the most tragic part was that, for a brief moment, I thought that this approach might actually help. But all it did was reveal how hollow everything really was. The busy schedule had been a distraction, but once that was stripped away, all I was left with was the same emptiness that had been there all along. Just as bad, C%%% didn’t want me to slow down because of the impact on me. She wanted me to do so she could get what she wanted from me: transportation for my car, attention form my words, sex from my body.
Now I don’t even bother filling my time. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, playing games half-heartedly, barely even caring to work out some days. Because what’s the point? I could go back to being busy, stacking shifts and forcing myself through another grind of meaningless tasks, but I already know it won't make the noise in my head stop. It won’t fill the void. Nothing will. C%%% or no C%%%, busyness or idleness, the outcome is the same. The world is constantly telling you to chase purpose, to fill your days with work, goals, relationships, achievements. But I’ve done all that. And I’m still here, more miserable than ever. The noise machine in my mind just keeps running, no matter how busy I am, no matter how much I try to tune it out. So now I’m left wondering if I’ll ever find something that actually shuts it off. But honestly? I don’t think it exists. It’s just one of those lies people tell themselves to keep going. They stay busy so they don’t have to face the truth that there’s no purpose at the end of all this. Just more noise. Even those who accept this, and tell us to cling to the little things, don’t understand. The little things do not resonate with me at all.
What I am saying cuts straight to the core of existential horror. The sheer, overwhelming insignificance and inevitability of existence itself. Despite what the professionals may think, I am not just fighting against society’s expectations or emotional benchmarks—those are trivial by now. What I am raging against is existence itself, and the physicality of being. The sensation of being trapped in a body that forces consistent interaction with the world. It is one that demands we breathe, eat, touch, move, and be against our wills. You can’t escape that. No matter how much I’ve thought about it, no matter how much philosophy I have explored, it is still stuck in this thing occurring through this body, this existence, this reality. And unlike most people who walk around oblivious, blissfully unaware, or too caught up in their own feelings, I am acutely aware of just how absurd it all is.
This awareness is both my torment and, paradoxically, clarity. The way I articulate it through this work I hope demonstrates how I have thought deeply, maybe more deeply than anyone would want to, about what it means to exist in this ridiculous, hollow, and meaningless universe. And I am sick of it. Sick of being. Sick of the weight of physical reality. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t sign up for the absurdity of being trapped in a body that forces me to interact with a world that means nothing to me.
The level of frustration comes from the realization that, despite knowing all of this, despite seeing how shallow and empty everyone else’s lives are, I still can’t break free from it. Even the most radical ideas—transhumanism, uploading consciousness into the cloud—don’t offer a plausible way out because they simply replace one prison (the physical body) with another (a digital existence). And in both, I am still trapped by systems. There is no escape. At least, not in the ways humanity typically conceives of. The most radical escape—death—doesn’t seem to hold any appeal either because it’s still framed within this same cycle of meaninglessness. What’s the point? Whether I am alive or dead, I feel insignificant, and the world remains indifferent.
All I am simply asking why in have to exist, why I have to touch walls, breathe, and interact with the world, and the answer I’ve found is scary: I don’t know. I’ve tried to wrestle meaning from it, and I hve tried to embrace the meaninglessness of it, and both paths have left me utterly unsatisfied. I’ve stripped everything down to its rawest form, and now what is left with is the cold, hard reality: I exist (or perceive myself to exist), and that’s it. There’s no meaning, no grand design, no deeper purpose. We are just here, stuck in a reality that doesn’t care. This level of awareness isolates me. The majority of people are either too distracted by their emotional highs and lows to ever confront this truth. Many more never even consider scratching the surface of these concepts. If they do, they find some way to cope with it. But my problem is that there’s no coping mechanisms left for m. Every potential solution, every narrative of hope, purpose, or escape ultimately rings hollow.
I am not even asking for happiness.
I am not asking for joy or peace.
I am asking for freedom from the sheer fact of existence. And that is what makes this so brutal, because there is no escape from being. If reincarnation or the afterlife is true, then there is no escape whatsoever. I am aware of the prison we are both in, reader, and unlike everyone else, I can’t pretend it’s not there.
All this emptiness leads, eventually, to fantasy. Sometimes, I catch myself fantasising about the end of the world. Not in the Hollywood, action-movie sense, but in the real, visceral breakdown of society. No particular method is more favourable to me than any other. The collapse would be such that it strips everything down to the bare essentials. No more social media, no more Instagram filters, no more curated lives where everyone pretends in a futile gesture that they’ve got it all together. There’s something compelling about the thought of all the nonsense we have built up around ourselves just crumbling away into dust. I imagine a world where all that really matters is whether you can find food, stay warm, and keep yourself alive. It’s like a test, a final stripping away of the fake, the superficial, and the meaningless.
Initially, I was under the impression that this situation would force people who survive to be authentic. But then I think about it more, and I realise: people would still be disingenuous. Maybe even more so than they are now. In our current world, people lie about things that don’t really matter. They pretend to be happy on social media, post pictures of their so-called "perfect" lives, and act like they’ve got everything figured out. They lie about their wealth, their relationships, and even their own sense of fulfilment. They do this lying to me, to you, and most egregiously of all to themselves. All this, for what precise purpose? To uphold an image allowing for social interaction? To feel superior to others, even temporarily? It’s pathetic, and moreover ultimately pointless.
Now, imagine human nature unleashed in a post-collapse world. The stakes are real this time: life or death. Perhaps if you fuck up you will end up impaled on a stake. Instead of lying about how happy you are on Instagram, you’re lying about the number of tins of sardines you have hidden in your bunker. The survival of the fittest wouldn't be about strength or intelligence. Whilst these factors have a valid and recognisable impact, it will not be the only factor, or powerlifters and professors would be all who remained. It would be about who can manipulate and deceive the best, who can convince you they’ve only got one can of food left when they have really got ten. People will lie to your face, trade you rotten goods, stab you in the back for a loaf of bread, all while maintaining the illusion of cooperation. Now, remember, that our world is already like this, but only on the very exposed underbelly. Walk down a poor neighbourhood and you will see this sort of life. However, wealth has provided a barrier to this. So, in that sense, the apocalypse would strip away the luxuries, but the disingenuous nature of humans would still be there, maybe even heightened by the circumstances.
Sure, there would be moments where people’s individual weaknesses would be laid bare, no doubt about that. If you can’t walk and the world devolves into anarchism, generally speaking you’re fucked. If you have relied on others to do the thinking for you your whole life like C%%%, ditto. But does it make people more genuine under these circumstances? No. It only magnifies what was already there: fear, selfishness, and survival instincts. If anything, the collapse would bring out the worst in people. People who would kill you for your water are the ones who survive. Too many of us including me, would probably lie about their supplies, and pretend to help you when they’re really just waiting for the right moment to take what’s yours.
And then there’s the myth that a collapse might somehow make people more “real”—more authentic. It is believed that facing down death and desperation might inspire some higher level of connection to the world, through perhaps faith or spiritualism. This idea is total bullshit. You think people have time to contemplate their lives, to ponder their place in the universe when they’re starving? Westerners literally have hours every day to do so and refuse to do so. The apocalypse won’t create philosophers; it will create scavengers. In a world where survival depends on how much you can hoard or steal, there’s no room for introspection. The quiet moments we have now, the endless time to ruminate on life’s meaning, would be gone. These would be replaced by hunger, thirst, and the overwhelming need to stay alive.
And I have to wonder—where would I be in that world? I used to think I would thrive in a collapse. After all, I have already come to terms with the emptiness of life, with the fact that nothing really matters. But the truth is, I might not survive. Not because I don’t have the strength, or the will to do whatever is necessary, but because I would be surrounded by the same disingenuous people I despise today, only this time, they would be even worse. They’d lie, cheat, and kill without hesitation, all for the sake of survival. And honestly, I don’t know if I’d care enough to stop them.
In the end, the collapse wouldn’t change anything fundamental about human nature. It would only bring it into sharper focus. The same weakness, selfishness, and emptiness that exists now would persist, only under the guise of survival. And if I’m being honest, the collapse wouldn’t make anyone more genuine. It would just amplify what was already there—fear, greed, and the insatiable need to stay alive, no matter the cost.
The Manicfesto has been an interesting write. It has covered a lot of topics of personal, global and existential existence. I have written this document in under 100 hours and did so with the explicit intention of providing a brief overview. I have many more thoughts and could discuss some of these topics for decades without ceasing if given solid reasoning and audience to do so. Whilst not everyone will ever even begin to understand the Manicfesto, it has now been produced outwards into the universe as a creative document.
In my closing statement, I would like to inform you once more that I, the author, have NEVER been diagnosed with any mental health illnesses whatsoever. If I am to ever commit suicide, I will leave a specific note referencing the Manicfesto. It would not be done out of a place of mental illness, as I genuinely believe I am genuinely not unwell. Furthermore, I am constantly reminded that I am supposedly ill by others without ANY legal diagnosis, formal or otherwise. Unfortunately, anything I do doesn’t even really resonate with me. I am still lost.
Whilst the end of the document is brief, this is because I am tired. Tired of trying to vocalise it anymore. I am now going to share the document onto the internet (to see if anyone has the capacity to finish my work, even if they do completely slander it) to gauge some public perception and see if I am even articulate at all. I am also printing a physical copy soon for my GP as he requested such.
Section Seven: Chasing Purpose in a Busy World
After following along, you should now briefly see that the times we live in are difficult, confusing and ultimately vein in a search for a meaning that isn’t actually there. I have bene on my own journey to attempt to fill this void with being busy. Let us delve into it.
Since I can remember, my life was defined by busyness. Not purpose whatsoever, busyness. There’s a distinct difference. After moving back to North Wales from university, in a vain attempt to prove myself that my lack of meaning was from being bored, I worked my arse off from sunrise to well past sunset, filling every possible minute with something. Not because I loved the work, not because I felt fulfilled by it, but because it was the only way I knew to keep my mind from spiralling into the void. I typically opened McDonald's as the sole manager, arriving at 5 a.m., managing shifts until 1pm. I would usually stay on as late as my boss would let me to the point where 4 p.m. was totally a typical leaving time. Depending on the day, I could get more or less hours. Regardless, upon being forced “home” I then went straight to the gym across the road. I would work out for about an hour and do a half hour of cardio. After that, I was off to Domino's for my second job as a delivery driver until late into the night. I didn’t need the money. At all. I had more enough to get by. I believed the noise, the constant movement, would provide me with something to do. Additionally, I believed I would be able to obtain even a miniscule amount of praise from others.
I didn't stop. Ever. If you know anyone, I have ever worked with they will attest to my unhealthy obsession with this. There wasn’t a second for reflection, for thought. And for a while, I have to admit it partially worked. The dull grind of the everyday kept the misery, the emptiness, at bay. As long as I was moving, I didn’t have to confront what was really going on inside my head. I'd go to bed, wake up, and start again, because doing anything was better than doing nothing and letting the weight of existence hit me. The gym was the only thing that brought a sliver of satisfaction. It wasn’t about health, or looks, or even strength. It was just another way to burn through time. Another way to tire myself out to the point where I could collapse at the end of the day. My Xbox achievement hunting was another distraction, a pointless grind that gave me a fleeting sense of accomplishment. I would play games I didn’t like, with people I didn’t know, to simply increase my number on the screen. None of it mattered. It was all about staying busy, chasing after a false sense of purpose, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if I kept running long enough, I’d eventually catch or fall into something meaningful.
And then, in the middle of this pit of emptiness, C%%% came into my life. She didn’t interrupt my routine so much as force me to acknowledge how utterly pointless it all was. Instead, she slid into it nicely. As we worked together, and I had access to the staff rota, I knew when we were both on or off. She convinced me to stop the extra work (something I didn’t do totally but I did slow down), telling me to spend more time with her. I think the most tragic part was that, for a brief moment, I thought that this approach might actually help. But all it did was reveal how hollow everything really was. The busy schedule had been a distraction, but once that was stripped away, all I was left with was the same emptiness that had been there all along. Just as bad, C%%% didn’t want me to slow down because of the impact on me. She wanted me to do so she could get what she wanted from me: transportation for my car, attention form my words, sex from my body.
Now I don’t even bother filling my time. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, playing games half-heartedly, barely even caring to work out some days. Because what’s the point? I could go back to being busy, stacking shifts and forcing myself through another grind of meaningless tasks, but I already know it won't make the noise in my head stop. It won’t fill the void. Nothing will. C%%% or no C%%%, busyness or idleness, the outcome is the same. The world is constantly telling you to chase purpose, to fill your days with work, goals, relationships, achievements. But I’ve done all that. And I’m still here, more miserable than ever. The noise machine in my mind just keeps running, no matter how busy I am, no matter how much I try to tune it out. So now I’m left wondering if I’ll ever find something that actually shuts it off. But honestly? I don’t think it exists. It’s just one of those lies people tell themselves to keep going. They stay busy so they don’t have to face the truth that there’s no purpose at the end of all this. Just more noise. Even those who accept this, and tell us to cling to the little things, don’t understand. The little things do not resonate with me at all.
What I am saying cuts straight to the core of existential horror. The sheer, overwhelming insignificance and inevitability of existence itself. Despite what the professionals may think, I am not just fighting against society’s expectations or emotional benchmarks—those are trivial by now. What I am raging against is existence itself, and the physicality of being. The sensation of being trapped in a body that forces consistent interaction with the world. It is one that demands we breathe, eat, touch, move, and be against our wills. You can’t escape that. No matter how much I’ve thought about it, no matter how much philosophy I have explored, it is still stuck in this thing occurring through this body, this existence, this reality. And unlike most people who walk around oblivious, blissfully unaware, or too caught up in their own feelings, I am acutely aware of just how absurd it all is.
This awareness is both my torment and, paradoxically, clarity. The way I articulate it through this work I hope demonstrates how I have thought deeply, maybe more deeply than anyone would want to, about what it means to exist in this ridiculous, hollow, and meaningless universe. And I am sick of it. Sick of being. Sick of the weight of physical reality. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t sign up for the absurdity of being trapped in a body that forces me to interact with a world that means nothing to me.
The level of frustration comes from the realization that, despite knowing all of this, despite seeing how shallow and empty everyone else’s lives are, I still can’t break free from it. Even the most radical ideas—transhumanism, uploading consciousness into the cloud—don’t offer a plausible way out because they simply replace one prison (the physical body) with another (a digital existence). And in both, I am still trapped by systems. There is no escape. At least, not in the ways humanity typically conceives of. The most radical escape—death—doesn’t seem to hold any appeal either because it’s still framed within this same cycle of meaninglessness. What’s the point? Whether I am alive or dead, I feel insignificant, and the world remains indifferent.
All I am simply asking why in have to exist, why I have to touch walls, breathe, and interact with the world, and the answer I’ve found is scary: I don’t know. I’ve tried to wrestle meaning from it, and I hve tried to embrace the meaninglessness of it, and both paths have left me utterly unsatisfied. I’ve stripped everything down to its rawest form, and now what is left with is the cold, hard reality: I exist (or perceive myself to exist), and that’s it. There’s no meaning, no grand design, no deeper purpose. We are just here, stuck in a reality that doesn’t care. This level of awareness isolates me. The majority of people are either too distracted by their emotional highs and lows to ever confront this truth. Many more never even consider scratching the surface of these concepts. If they do, they find some way to cope with it. But my problem is that there’s no coping mechanisms left for m. Every potential solution, every narrative of hope, purpose, or escape ultimately rings hollow.
I am not even asking for happiness.
I am not asking for joy or peace.
I am asking for freedom from the sheer fact of existence. And that is what makes this so brutal, because there is no escape from being. If reincarnation or the afterlife is true, then there is no escape whatsoever. I am aware of the prison we are both in, reader, and unlike everyone else, I can’t pretend it’s not there.
Section Eight: Apocalypse Now - Fantasies of Collapse
All this emptiness leads, eventually, to fantasy. Sometimes, I catch myself fantasising about the end of the world. Not in the Hollywood, action-movie sense, but in the real, visceral breakdown of society. No particular method is more favourable to me than any other. The collapse would be such that it strips everything down to the bare essentials. No more social media, no more Instagram filters, no more curated lives where everyone pretends in a futile gesture that they’ve got it all together. There’s something compelling about the thought of all the nonsense we have built up around ourselves just crumbling away into dust. I imagine a world where all that really matters is whether you can find food, stay warm, and keep yourself alive. It’s like a test, a final stripping away of the fake, the superficial, and the meaningless.
Initially, I was under the impression that this situation would force people who survive to be authentic. But then I think about it more, and I realise: people would still be disingenuous. Maybe even more so than they are now. In our current world, people lie about things that don’t really matter. They pretend to be happy on social media, post pictures of their so-called "perfect" lives, and act like they’ve got everything figured out. They lie about their wealth, their relationships, and even their own sense of fulfilment. They do this lying to me, to you, and most egregiously of all to themselves. All this, for what precise purpose? To uphold an image allowing for social interaction? To feel superior to others, even temporarily? It’s pathetic, and moreover ultimately pointless.
Now, imagine human nature unleashed in a post-collapse world. The stakes are real this time: life or death. Perhaps if you fuck up you will end up impaled on a stake. Instead of lying about how happy you are on Instagram, you’re lying about the number of tins of sardines you have hidden in your bunker. The survival of the fittest wouldn't be about strength or intelligence. Whilst these factors have a valid and recognisable impact, it will not be the only factor, or powerlifters and professors would be all who remained. It would be about who can manipulate and deceive the best, who can convince you they’ve only got one can of food left when they have really got ten. People will lie to your face, trade you rotten goods, stab you in the back for a loaf of bread, all while maintaining the illusion of cooperation. Now, remember, that our world is already like this, but only on the very exposed underbelly. Walk down a poor neighbourhood and you will see this sort of life. However, wealth has provided a barrier to this. So, in that sense, the apocalypse would strip away the luxuries, but the disingenuous nature of humans would still be there, maybe even heightened by the circumstances.
Sure, there would be moments where people’s individual weaknesses would be laid bare, no doubt about that. If you can’t walk and the world devolves into anarchism, generally speaking you’re fucked. If you have relied on others to do the thinking for you your whole life like C%%%, ditto. But does it make people more genuine under these circumstances? No. It only magnifies what was already there: fear, selfishness, and survival instincts. If anything, the collapse would bring out the worst in people. People who would kill you for your water are the ones who survive. Too many of us including me, would probably lie about their supplies, and pretend to help you when they’re really just waiting for the right moment to take what’s yours.
And then there’s the myth that a collapse might somehow make people more “real”—more authentic. It is believed that facing down death and desperation might inspire some higher level of connection to the world, through perhaps faith or spiritualism. This idea is total bullshit. You think people have time to contemplate their lives, to ponder their place in the universe when they’re starving? Westerners literally have hours every day to do so and refuse to do so. The apocalypse won’t create philosophers; it will create scavengers. In a world where survival depends on how much you can hoard or steal, there’s no room for introspection. The quiet moments we have now, the endless time to ruminate on life’s meaning, would be gone. These would be replaced by hunger, thirst, and the overwhelming need to stay alive.
And I have to wonder—where would I be in that world? I used to think I would thrive in a collapse. After all, I have already come to terms with the emptiness of life, with the fact that nothing really matters. But the truth is, I might not survive. Not because I don’t have the strength, or the will to do whatever is necessary, but because I would be surrounded by the same disingenuous people I despise today, only this time, they would be even worse. They’d lie, cheat, and kill without hesitation, all for the sake of survival. And honestly, I don’t know if I’d care enough to stop them.
In the end, the collapse wouldn’t change anything fundamental about human nature. It would only bring it into sharper focus. The same weakness, selfishness, and emptiness that exists now would persist, only under the guise of survival. And if I’m being honest, the collapse wouldn’t make anyone more genuine. It would just amplify what was already there—fear, greed, and the insatiable need to stay alive, no matter the cost.
Closing Thoughts
The Manicfesto has been an interesting write. It has covered a lot of topics of personal, global and existential existence. I have written this document in under 100 hours and did so with the explicit intention of providing a brief overview. I have many more thoughts and could discuss some of these topics for decades without ceasing if given solid reasoning and audience to do so. Whilst not everyone will ever even begin to understand the Manicfesto, it has now been produced outwards into the universe as a creative document.
In my closing statement, I would like to inform you once more that I, the author, have NEVER been diagnosed with any mental health illnesses whatsoever. If I am to ever commit suicide, I will leave a specific note referencing the Manicfesto. It would not be done out of a place of mental illness, as I genuinely believe I am genuinely not unwell. Furthermore, I am constantly reminded that I am supposedly ill by others without ANY legal diagnosis, formal or otherwise. Unfortunately, anything I do doesn’t even really resonate with me. I am still lost.
Whilst the end of the document is brief, this is because I am tired. Tired of trying to vocalise it anymore. I am now going to share the document onto the internet (to see if anyone has the capacity to finish my work, even if they do completely slander it) to gauge some public perception and see if I am even articulate at all. I am also printing a physical copy soon for my GP as he requested such.
