‘Is this all,’ or is there more meaning to life?
By Ron Bassilian
So it is, once again.
A new quarter has started and the routine starts anew. Get your
books, get accustomed to your new schedule, etc., etc., only five
more quarters ’til graduation, etc., etc.
So goes the endless routine, diagrammed like a well-oiled
conveyor belt to put out well-trained engineers and managers into
the world of commerce.
I always thought it was rather odd that my whole life was pretty
much planned for me. Work hard in high school, get into a good
college, work hard in college, expand yourself, explore the
opposite sex, find a good job, meet the man or woman of your
dreams, settle down for a family, raise kids, retire and die
quietly.
And so this incomprehensible little train of thought warps back
toward high school to the sleepy little town of Torrance, Calif.,
where for a few short times I actually voiced myself out and either
was made to feel I was suffering from depression or was given a few
pathetic little platitudes to explain life. Sometimes it got very
alienating, but I figured that since no one knew what I was talking
about it must not be an important question.
Needless to say, most of the time I was made to feel like I was
some kind of depressed freak. My questions and wants wound up
thrown into the periphery of a suburban pseudo-paradise of
extracurricular activities, scholarship awards, the homecoming
court and the all-seeing, all-knowing social ladder.
Then came that fateful day in my senior year, when an
acquaintance brought a punk ‘zine (an amateur magazine full of
rants, opinions and other clips) from Stanford, and it was no less
than amazing. Here were people with the same feelings I had! I
almost memorized the thing, and made 75 copies with the intention
of spreading the gospel around the school, and wound up going to
the principal’s office and listening to him say that we can’t
maintain order when I’m passing out stuff like this.
So it was.
In the following years I played the game, followed the rules,
but I got more and more into the underground community the more I
learned about it. And as I learned and grew, the question still lay
in the back of my mind: Is this all? There is more, there must be
more to life, pressed the question like a Chinese water
torture.
Sometimes it would whisper as I wondered about other things.
Sometimes it would scream so loudly that in the rage and confusion
all I could do is think of explosions and escaping, and I’d look at
people and realize how content they all were in their little lives
while here I was sitting in agony. And all I could do was hate and
spit and have fantasies of destruction like Johnny Rotten and his
"Anarchy in the UK."
The difference is that now my friends and colleagues have some
idea of what I’m talking about, as opposed to those I left behind
in Torrance. I’ve talked to fervent Christians, political
activists, other punks and members of the underground, etc. And
they all point to that. Some say they’ve accepted there is no
meaning, some say there is meaning in Jesus Christ, others say it’s
in finding something rewarding to do, etc.
But like a friend of mind said, if there is no meaning, why do
we ask for it so much? It’s not some abstract question to be
ridiculed, it’s wanting more. And the reality is that none of you,
none of us, has an answer. The slogans, the platitudes in Hallmark
cards, all the proverbs and fables, answer nothing.
Sometimes you can fool yourself very well, you can go on long
treks and search and find out that it’s the little things, you can
find meaning in some activity or in just the search, but ultimately
it comes back to haunt you, muting all your happiness into one
sullen episode. That wasn’t the answer.
I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone thinks about it at one
time or another. I remember a friend of mine from the fraternities
asking it at a party, and his friends told him to have a beer and
he’ll be happier. Another said she gets that way sometimes, but she
goes shopping to get over it. A third is on Prozac. The whole thing
is treated like some incurable nagging sore that won’t go away.
And that’s what it is  a nagging, festering sore that
tears away at your well-being. No matter how many friends you’re
around, no matter whether you’re at Disneyland or a killer rave or
making love or having a psychedelic experience or whatever, it
stays there, festering, gnawing, saying, "Hello? Is this all? No,
there is more!"
And all the while, you’re playing the game, following the rules,
running along that well-oiled conveyor belt, and the end isn’t
getting any further away.
Bassilian is a third-year student double majoring in political
science and mathematics.