Forgetting

It's been a gradual spiral back into nihilism the last couple weeks. Not sure what it is, exactly—probably the semester winding down, and dreary winter coming on. But futility and demotivation have been the name of the game for me the last few weeks. Blech.

Interestingly, the Christian agnostic thing is working out well for my reality-oriented self. So I'd still put myself in that category after all these months—a somewhat successful experiment I suppose. But the problem lies, as it always has, in trying to find the point of it all.

Orson Scott Card

The first time I read Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game was back in high school. At the time, I enjoyed the book, but as my worldview was still quite intact I had no real need to pick up on the occasional hints at Card's deep understanding of philosophy and human nature. This past spring, though, I heard the last couple chapters again on audiobook. I broke down sobbing. Here, at last, was an author who got it. Someone who knew my struggles for what they were, and validated my craving for inherent meaning in intelligence and human life without necessitating an extrinsic force. This summer, reading Card has been a therapy unlike anything else.