Sometimes being conscious is glorious

Last night, as we talked about the science classification of humans (Chordata, Mammalia, etc.), I looked up a Wikipedia article on humans and read some funny lines about how humans are “bipedal” animals and one thing said human women go through menopause at about age 50 — and I read that (and other lines) to M and she said “yep” or something. Anyway, yeah, we’re nearly safe from the risk of reproduction! We’ll soon have escaped from that rat race — that biological trap — of making new individuals of our own kind. I don’t mean to sound too snarky here, but, well, you know, I don’t feel bad — other than for a brief, sentimental moment at a time — about not having had kids, not having made other humans. Sometimes being conscious is glorious — but certainly not at other times. I mean, I guess it’s not that I have a problem with consciousness. But, dang, it feels like it has taken me most of my 48 years to figure out what I want from life, to understand myself, and some of that not-knowing was painful. (And, well, it’s hard not to think of the material wastefulness of our contemporary lifestyles: carbon skies, landfills of plastic, economic exploitation of poorer people. Yes, those are things I participate in, too, though I don’t feel good — I certainly don’t feel I’ve resolved my feelings — about it.) And even now that I know what I like about being alive — I know that I like writing and observing , etc. — I still find social interaction difficult. I wish I had more people in my Ogle Co. life I could talk to.

[From journal of Thurs., 18 Aug. 2022, Journal 364, pages 228-229]