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The primary symptom of Seasonal Affective Disorder is a profound sense of disconnect. Spring is the only cure. There are short-term remedies, though. The most effective ones are Deep Conversations About the Meaning of the Universe and Bad TV.
Absolutely nobody I know is interested in Deep Conversations About the Meaning of the Universe. I suppose I could pursue one-way rants on the subject, read the Great Philosophers. But I'm afraid I'm far too much of a lightweight to pursue any writer more intellectually taxing than, say, Malcolm Gladwell. So I tend to watch a lot of bad TV and ascribe deep archetypal contexts to it. Go ahead -- ask me about the Prometheus subtext in Law & Order - SVU! I dare you.
I thumb restlessly through my address book. I Google old acquaintances. I eavesdrop on strangers' conversations. I'm looking for that one magical insight, that one formula that will make some kind of sense out of the random scatter. The skein through the labyrinth.
Haven't found it yet.
Without that connection to some deeper current, it seems to me that life is random and meaningless, hardly worth the effort it takes to continue living. After the Singularity, things will be different! Our robot successors in the evolutionary progression will be equipped with Off switches. When angst descends, they will turn themselves off. When the days get longer, they will arrange to have themselves turned back on.
Turning oneself off is somewhat more of a commitment for a human since there's no possibility of turning oneself on again. It's also a short-term solution. Come springtime, these heavy feelings will be totally eradicated. The daffodils will bloom. The robins will return. It's just a matter of hanging in there until then. Resisting the temptation to call all my buddies, starting with the Feckless X -- So, Ben. Why do you think consciousness exists? And why did you leave me anyway? I mean -- you told me already but I forget. And maybe you have a different answer this time...
I suppose Bad TV might be seen as a type of suicide. I do feel my brain cells dying every time Mariska Hargitay interviews a child.
Absolutely nobody I know is interested in Deep Conversations About the Meaning of the Universe. I suppose I could pursue one-way rants on the subject, read the Great Philosophers. But I'm afraid I'm far too much of a lightweight to pursue any writer more intellectually taxing than, say, Malcolm Gladwell. So I tend to watch a lot of bad TV and ascribe deep archetypal contexts to it. Go ahead -- ask me about the Prometheus subtext in Law & Order - SVU! I dare you.
I thumb restlessly through my address book. I Google old acquaintances. I eavesdrop on strangers' conversations. I'm looking for that one magical insight, that one formula that will make some kind of sense out of the random scatter. The skein through the labyrinth.
Haven't found it yet.
Without that connection to some deeper current, it seems to me that life is random and meaningless, hardly worth the effort it takes to continue living. After the Singularity, things will be different! Our robot successors in the evolutionary progression will be equipped with Off switches. When angst descends, they will turn themselves off. When the days get longer, they will arrange to have themselves turned back on.
Turning oneself off is somewhat more of a commitment for a human since there's no possibility of turning oneself on again. It's also a short-term solution. Come springtime, these heavy feelings will be totally eradicated. The daffodils will bloom. The robins will return. It's just a matter of hanging in there until then. Resisting the temptation to call all my buddies, starting with the Feckless X -- So, Ben. Why do you think consciousness exists? And why did you leave me anyway? I mean -- you told me already but I forget. And maybe you have a different answer this time...
I suppose Bad TV might be seen as a type of suicide. I do feel my brain cells dying every time Mariska Hargitay interviews a child.
