Full on migraine attack today. At a kids’ birthday party this morning when I realised I couldn’t see part of the face of the person I was talking to. I blame a 14k run and no breakfast. Okay, it’s pretty easy to see how that wasn’t the wisest decision, but Sunday is my long-run day and it’s hard enough to fit it in without an early birthday party to get to too. I figured I’d have a chance to grab coffee and a snack at the party, but by that time it was a little late.
Blindness isn’t always a migraine symptom for me but by the time it gets to blindness I’m in definitive migraine-not-headache territory. I didn’t get full-on blackness today, just patches of vision missing and going a bit stupid and stuff.
I don’t like migraines. Okay, pretty obvious statement. I mean that I dislike them beyond the pain and the annoying symptoms. They feel a bit like death. It reminds me that I’m just a collection of firing synapses carting myself through the world in a meat-suit. That scares the hell out of me.
I like to think of myself as something more, something lasting, something that’s always been here and always will be. So, it’s pretty obvious that I don’t have memories before the age of about two, and anecdotal evidence seems to suggest that the meat-robot suits that carry us around always eventually fail. However, if I’ve faith in anything, I’ve faith in myself. Maybe it’s just a comforting lie to believe that I’ve always existed and always will and that this is just a small 3-D section through my multi-dimensional waveform existence. And if it is a lie, then what harm? It’s not like I’m going to create a cult of me and persecute those who don’t conform to some arbitrary rules based on infinite waveform existence.
It’s a comfort to believe in eternal life, but I do have doubts. First of all, I suspect that even if I do have some kind of infinite existence it’s kind of irrelevant. The “me” that exists in this infinitesimal 3-D cross-section is probably nothing more than a night’s dream to such a creature. And the loves and emotions and deep-seated goals that pervade these days mean next to nothing to the larger me. In some depressing way, I could even view the larger, infinite, multi-dimensional me as a kind of monster that will eventually eat the “me” that exists in this form. Or maybe they already have, or they always do or something. Thinking in larger dimensions is hard.
But I also kind of don’t care. It’s a belief that’s based on half-understandings of how the maths of the universe works in the first place, and if something like my suspicions are even close to true, then I doubt I have even a fragment of understanding of the truly true truth of the whole thing.
But here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter. Most of our human meat-robot existence seems to be concerned with distracting ourselves from the fact that we’re going to end. It makes it easier for me to live with that inescapable truth if I can believe that existence is more than this eye-blink. And that feels more comfortable to me than trying to avoid the daily terror of nothingness.
Also, instinctually it feels wrong for things to end. Very little in the physical universe behaves like discrete mathematics. There are rarely closed intervals, things are merely bounded with soft edges and asymptotes and limits to infinity. Sure it might have just about the safe effect as ending, but I can hope that it won’t be so scary and abrupt.
I suppose I find that I don’t want to delve to much past the instinctive belief and desire in something “more”. What’s the harm? If there’s nothing more at the end, and all I get is this firefly existence, then why not have a slightly more comfortable eye blink by believing in more? Why not believe that there is some infinite connection between myself and my loved ones? Why not hold onto the the reassuring notion that we always have existed and always will, that we have always been together – even if I didn’t necessarily realise it in the linear path of this trapped-time experience.
Wow, I guess I really don’t need alcohol anymore do I? I’m perfectly capably of babbling on with philosophical bullshit without the effects of 2am brandy and ginger-ale.
Sorry. Happy New Year!
Happy all the years.