The preservation of self is a strange but enduring vicious cycle that creates more of the same from the same – akin to a breeder reactor. I’ve often believed that I’m the product of “interesting” circumstances, circumstance that are not easily replicable. When I did express this to a friend, the answer I received was the same each time a different friend was concerned: that we all believed that each one of us is a product of exceptional circumstances. And then, I would swear that, since all of us were exceptional, I was more exceptional than the rest – that I had the least in common with any other individual person.
The problem with that belief, rather irony, is that the wisdom necessary to assert the validity of that proclamation discredits the (otherwise) desirable irreplicability of the circumstances. At times, I have concocted imaginary incidents to supplant my claims of uniqueness; in fact, over the years, I have become aware that the goal of the “me” that is born of the fantastic tales takes away with it all indications of resource and opportunity just so the real me suddenly emerges – “an overlord out of the acid clouds” – as a hero who’s had to battle and struggle in order to be who he is.
While this diary may not be alone in receiving these confessions, it is alone in being only a silent receptacle, a perfect listener. There is a real threat that frightens me to no end, and people have often incorrectly and summarily called it the threat of insignificance. The significance of any object, in my opinion, relies mostly on the context in which it is being utilized. Therefore, the object possesses varying degrees of significance across the swath of possibilities it experiences during its existence.
According to me, that is a discretionary evaluation, one that involves the tasks of insertion (into a context), evaluation, and extraction (out of a context), while its extra-contextual existence seems to merit no evaluation whatsoever. I cannot relate to that object, I cannot believe that any of us is free from continuous evaluation (even if by ourselves). No.
Imagine a superhuman artifact of galactic proportions in physical space that must maintain a certain geoidal shape in order to continue to occupy those coordinates of space it already does. Imagine an engineer who inspects it for dents and dimples, an engineer who is the embodiment of envy, curiosity and greed (and many things besides), an engineer who is entrusted with the task of zeroing in on the error as soon as it has been spotted and rectifying it with a solution he magically materializes. Since the object is non-sentient, it has no way of knowing where on its ductile surface the engineer’s eyes are resting – something akin to Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon.
I am the square inch of metal that may or may not be defective, that square inch of metal which is hypothetically wondering if its thickness and other dimensions are all that vital for the artifact to stay in that one cavity of interstellar space, wondering what would really happen if that artifact did fall out of its boring compartment and into new and exciting environs. I am that square inch of metal that is being ceaselessly evaluated for no understandable ends, and unsurprisingly bringing to life a world where the “special and exceptional and irreplicable” circumstances could not have been wrong, in the process salvaging my importance, vindicating said circumstances and, more importantly, bending my will to further their credibility.