The idea that one’s essential being will ultimately be reunited with some vague, ethereal universal life force offers me zero comfort. If there is no persistence of consciousness, what possible solace could I draw from that?
My thoughts exactly. Even in my self-loathing I’ve grown rather attached to myself… the essence of me. My consciousness, my thoughts. If I don’t go on in some sense… myself, my consciousness… why would I care if the molecules that currently make up “me” will be something else one day? The could be a tree. Dirt…. or something I hate. What would it matter if I have no experience anymore?
I’m reading the Schopenhauer Cure again because I’m using it to teach group counseling. Not a bad read.
Eternal Ocean of Words 