Cursed With A Brain

Sometimes it feels like I am cursed with a brain. Would it be better to regress to the level of an ant? Would that even be a regression? Maybe ants are more sophisticated than humans. Do I have a choice in the matter? Some people choose drugs, some choose betting, sex or shopping. Some people indulge in the victimisation and murder of others to escape their own minds. They crave power and control over others as a way to feel not so powerless. Brutality gives them meaning. It doesn't matter what medication or distraction we choose; it's all temporary. Whoever you think you are or I think I am, we all expire. In that, we have something in common with even the most brutal of us, and I hope one day, in fact, I am optimistic that we'll wake up to that. I think it will be sudden and so profound that it will shift our entire consciousness. I am certain, in fact. It is inevitable.

I teach personality theory, including identity, concepts of the self, and individual differences. As if these things we identify in ourselves and others really exist. There are many perspectives on personality, including psychoanalytic (Freud), humanistic (Maslow), Behaviourist (Skinner), Trait (Goldberg), Type (Jung), Evolutionary (Buss), and Neurological (Fisher), to name a few. They are theories of the human condition, they all have merit, and they are not necessarily contradictory. When taken together, we might form a more holistic picture, but all Western theories of the human condition miss something, in my opinion. We have a ceramic view of the universe, you see. Eastern philosophies take a more organic approach.

The problem is, though, I can’t quite put my finger on it, this thing that is missing. On account of its absence, I cannot say what is missing, and so I question the existence of a self or personality that goes any deeper than the thin surface facade. Just because I believe myself to be, that I (whatever that is) have an identity, because I convince myself of my own existence through my thoughts and words and those of others, does not mean that I am. The more I consider it, the more it seems I am not. Personality psychology begins with adjectives, descriptive terms that are said to characterise the behaviour of the organism. You might describe me as considerate, empathetic, conscientious, diligent, and so on. This might be true most of the time, and I might agree with you. However, it's insufficient, and worse still, it might represent a performance I have constructed to hide how I really want to behave.

There is a monologue inside me, although at times, it seems like a dialogue. This is all a fabrication. Language, whether uttered aloud or within the confines of my mind, is clever but limited. It either builds me up or tears me down; all the while, it is a fiction. Or rather, it represents a fiction. That fiction is what I refer to as me, a creation of whatever I am at my unidentifiable core. Language allows me to communicate, but I don’t need it, really. People of different languages, or indeed none at all, find a way to communicate. Besides, language never really delivers. We can never say what we mean; often, what we say creates more problems for us and others than we’d care to have. I cannot fully explain my inner experience to you, I cannot make you understand. Language is not enough. In some respects, you may be able to feel me better than hear me.

Without the narrative that goes on within me, I could not be me, whatever that is or what I choose to believe that is. Without the words that silently disrupt or reinforce my inner state, I could not be this fictional thing, this actor. I’d be something else, or maybe nothing at all. Maybe I would disappear or maybe I'd be more like the animals. Perhaps I would be free then. In that sense, language imprisons us within our own concepts of ourselves. We believe the words we and others utter, or we don’t. Either way, we believe something and disbelieve something else by the very act of the first instance. And within this false dichotomy, there is us, caught, imprisoned.

There is no humanity in the language we speak. Our sense of humanity is lost in the words. Too much is disguised by words, hidden away in the dark corners of our minds and disguised by my intense efforts to hide who I am. I hide behind what I say, and so do you. “How are you?” I ask him. “I’m grand, thanks; how are you?” he replies. A polite exchange. Do I really want to know? What do I mean when I ask someone how they are? Maybe I have something I want to reveal, so in asking, I want to be asked. I want to say how I am, but still, I conceal my true intent. I cannot be explicit because to say how I am is an affront to the social performance I take on. Politicians and media corporations are experts at concealing the truth, at delivering performances.

I wish to reveal my humanity, but I can’t because saying it somehow makes it real and reveals the act of everyday living to be untrue — a complete fabrication, a spoof. If I speak it, I release it from the dark corner of my mind. Maybe something else in me speaks it or wants to speak it. When he responds, “I’m grand, thanks”, what does he mean? He’s not actually grand at all; He’s in a nasty fucking place. His relationship isn’t great at all these days. He’s not getting on well with his teenage child. His work sucks, and he’d rather be doing something better with his life than this meaningless fucking job. Fuck it anyway, he thinks. Blinkers on, head down. If he ignores it, it will go away, even if only for a little while.

We fool ourselves, and others fool us, too. We accept it all. Media and Politics are essentially the “art” of deception. Sales and marketing are, too. They intentionally use words to deceive, manipulate, and coerce others, and perhaps themselves as well. Conjuring the words of an apparent higher power that acts as a veil over their own true intents and protects them from reality. They are psychopathic. And we, unable or unwilling to challenge the authenticity of the words used, to pull back the veil and to reveal the deceit, row in and accept the words we hear as truth—naive, stupid humans.

We often praise ourselves for being the highest order of animals on this planet, simply because we can chew up and spit out everything and everyone else at will. We are destructive and psychotic creatures, and although our cognitive capacities have allowed us to think and rationalise, this function will be our downfall. Sometimes I think we’d be better off without words, without language. It acts like a smokescreen. Without it, maybe we’d get to know who we are and treat ourselves and others a little better. Then again, maybe all of this madness is appropriate for our level of development.

On we go regardless.