The meaning of life (part 2)

I have the same problem as everyone else here (and anywhere) with boredom, delusions of grandeur, and an over acquaintance with feelings of emptiness and meaningless. I have chided deluded souls before about their Harry Potter syndrome, i.e. wishing that instead of ordinary they were powerful and indispensable, but that is me as well. I tend to deal with it in three ways: (1) try to ignore those feelings as being delusions, (2) try to justify those feelings as being accurate representations of reality by convincing myself that I really am special, and most recently (3) indulging them through religious devotion.

My religion is very self-empowering. I'm basically being told that I'm the equivalent of a superhero all the time -- not just a child of God but a leader amongst the chosen people. This narrative comports well with my delusions of self-grandeur, so it seems authentic to me. I feel like the demigods from the classics. It doesn't bother me at all that my powers come with restrictions or requirements, which I adhere to because the magic doesn't work without them. Am I deluded? Maybe. Am I happier this way than not? I think so. It simplifies things and keeps me out of trouble. I enjoy the ritual and the "spiritual high." Any sort of self denial I do has a tantric, pleasurable quality to it, at least most of the time. Because I am doing good things instead of bad, I feel like the universe should smile on me. I'm not constantly looking over my shoulder.

This last bit is a particularly good consequence. I am terrified that I am going to live to be 120. I know I could always kill myself, but I haven't had the fortitude and strength of conviction to do it thus far, who knows if I would even be physically able to do it then. I want to make sure that whatever I am doing in my life is sustainable, or easily retractable, or at the very least untraceable. Writing the blog violates that rule a little bit, but I guess there is such thing as being too careful. I'm particularly paranoid about the internet's ability to record things for all eternity. Shelley ridicules Ozymandias (“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”) while standing in front of the crumbled ruins of his "works," but now even the commonest of common men in the developed world will be immortal via Google's aggressive cache projects. There are a thousand things I can think of off-hand that I would rather not have immortalized.

But this long, rambling justification for the way I live reminds me of my closeted gay friend who works a nightmarish expat job for the money, is paranoid about touching public door handles, has two regular maids who don't know about the other just so neither thinks he is as unkempt as he is, spends the little free time he has sleeping or on role-playing games, and is secretly enamored with his straight best friend. I know my life seems equally ridiculous to the casual observer. Maybe that's why no one really talks about the meaning of life -- they have already found out what works for them, but are just too ashamed to discuss the sordid details.