Why Do I Feel This Way? No Good Reason.
You can’t outthink your daimon
Happiness makes no sense. Neither does unhappiness. Herein the crux of our confusion.
Humans, since the emergence of Language, have counted on Reason to steer us right. Reason, with Language’s essential assistance, proved a wonderworker at figuring things out. If A is true and B is true, then C must be true: let’s gather evidence, test our hypotheses, and learn from our conclusions. Reason ushered us behind appearances into the inner workings of experience. The sun did not rise – that was an illusion – the earth rotated: so Reason determined. When, a lifetime ago, a doctor told me I had cancer, I accepted his diagnosis and remedy, though I’d noticed no symptoms. Was it reasonable to invite evisceration to solve a problem I didn’t know I had? Yes, if Reason said so.
There was nothing Reason could not explain if you dug deep enough. That is the premise of the scientific method. God Himself operated reasonably. History from the get-go led logically, inexorably, to me.
Our confusion arose when Experience contradicted Reason. We should be happy, we reasoned, possessing all we wanted. Only we weren’t happy – or sad – based on facts. Sometimes we were giddy or desolate “for no good reason.” We deemed such unreasonable reactions disease. Our brains were messed up – our responses “made no sense.” If we weren’t blissful in Paradise, “there must be a reason.” We condemned others for our gloom, blaming on our shoes, as the saying goes, the faults of our feet.
I should be the gladdest guy on earth. I’m living the life I want with the wife I want – and dog, Henry reminds me. I’ve outlived several death sentences. I wouldn’t trade my circumstances for anyone’s. I appreciate even the paucity of time, knowing being’s vividness derives from its brevity. “Over the moon,” “on cloud nine,” “tickled pink,” “happy as a clam,” all smiley cliches apply. Yet sometimes sadness tumbles me like a tidal wave on a lonely shore. WTF is this all about, I berate myself; it makes no sense!
It riles us that Reason doesn’t rule. It mocks our pride. We humans should be so much better than we are – what’s wrong with us!
Turns out, Reason is our psyche’s flunky, not its master. Humans only imagine we’re reasonable and when our facts refute this belief we react angrily. I do not enjoy my funks, believe you me: they horrify and terrify, feel unfair somehow.
Where do these storms come from? They erupt from some aquifer beneath my life’s visible crust. They defy analysis. The old Greeks named this mysterious authority their daimon, or demon, a word clumsily translated as “fate,” “god,” “power.” You couldn’t reason with your daimon, you had to deal with it. No one was “the master of (their) fate” – what hubris! Only idiots imagined themselves responsible for their result – you played the cards you were dealt without whining – and died when it was your time.
Henry salutes their sagacity. Henry does not reason, he experiences. Satisfaction and survival make him glad, pain and fear distress him, but he never pines for a preferable elsewhere or decries his circumstances as “unreasonable.” He loses no sleep over his deserts (one s, accent on the second syllable) or rages at his lot. Does he get grouchy sometimes? Sure. He doesn’t like wet weather or abandonment. But hey, that’s how things are – why kick against pricks?
He is wiser than I. He does not writhe with confusion because he never imagined – the very idea! – that Reason ruled. He feels no urge to explain his confusing sentiments. He does not need to write.