It was an unsettling Saturday evening of my fifteenth year, when the possibility that human beings might not truly exist was brought to my attention. Damien sent me an e-mail of what he thought contained the amusing instant-messaging exchange he had with James earlier that day, copy-and-pasted below a sardonic “Read this. James is brilliant.”
I thought it rather strange that they had conversed at all, considering they were not even acquainted. I was also slightly offended by his insinuation that James was a bit of a dolt – Jimmy and I were friends since the sixth grade, and in many ways, I considered him something of a kindred soul. Damien’s comment made me feel as though the insult was directed partly at me as well. In any case, it can be difficult not to feel doltish around Damien. He was a combination of smart and snarky, and he knew it, too. In hopes of finding the conversation quite as amusing as he found it, I set aside my thoughts and skimmed on through the dialogue.
It read like a modern day, teenaged pseudo e-Socratic dialogue, only it was anonymous on Damien’s part. Midway through the typed conversation, after much of James’ futile interrogational attempts at figuring out just who it is behind the mysterious and unrevealing screen name, was where the metaphysical discussion began:
Jimmy says:
who the heck are you? do you even exist?
. says:
I don’t know. Perhaps I don’t. Perhaps I am a figment of your imagination. Are you delusional? Do you exist?
Jimmy says:
maybe YOUR delusional, your the idiot who won’t show who he is. and of course I exist. how ridiculous that’s the dumbest question i’ve ever heard.
. says:
You’re. And how do you know you exist?
At the end of the dialogue, Jimmy concedes that we might not exist. Though knowing James’ obstinate mind and general distaste for the theoretical, his strange conversation with Damien was quickly forgotten.
This was not the case for me. I had taken our existence for granted up until then; certainly, it was a thought to be marveled at. Yet, the implications of such a position eluded me, I did not want the consequences to be illuminated for fear that the world as I knew it would implode. I could not imagine the encumbering effect it would have on my mind. I grappled with the issue of our existence rather casually, for there seemed to be more pressing issues to be dealt with. We may not exist – so what happens now? I wondered.
Initially, I found solace in moments of real joy coinciding with intense focus, moments I could find only in the arts – in music, in writing, in dance. There was bliss to be found in the parallel fourths of Miles Davis’ Sketches of Spain, or the complex finger work that juxtaposes the rapid moving octaves in Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op.23; instances of delight brought on by ideas exactly translated in creative literary expression; and times when movement and music converge, and everything around fades away or blends in with the dance, the music, the universe. Moments that seemed real, moments that held you steadfast in the present with clarity, that leave you content with the idea of intermittent, ‘higher-faculty’ joy. Better a dissatisfied Socrates than a blissful pig, my high school English teacher liked to say.
It was rather like the calm before the storm.
During my sophomore year at college, when I no longer had the time or the ready opportunities for artistic outlet, the consequences of supposing our inexistence became clear to me. This occurred on the Thursday night of the day we began discussing the ‘higher-faculty joy’ theories of John Stuart Mill in Philosophy class, interestingly enough. It plagued me with doubt of my purpose in life – our purpose, or even the purpose of this supposed world. If we do not exist, and nothing is real, there is no apparent reason for trying to do anything in life. It negates any human construct or belief – the very things that are predicated upon our existence. There is not even a place for emotions, for happiness, enjoyment – for how could such things exist independently of humans? Unfortunately this time, it remained unresolved and loitering in the forefront of my consciousness.
Still, I could not remove myself from hoping that we exist, it being a much more satisfying conclusion. I spoke as if occurrences in life were real, as if I conceived of them as real. I could not quite bring myself to renounce worldly things to become a nirvana-seeking Buddhist, and I desperately wanted to live this life fully, regardless of our existence. I needed to believe that morals exist, that beauty exists, and that life somehow has a purpose. The problem was, I could not decide on which belief to hold. When desire to believe in something is pitted against an unknowable probability against the very thing, which should reason support?
After my sophomore year, I returned to Hong Kong for the summer for some escapist partying. It tends to be an unsuccessful effort; I usually would much rather enjoy the company of a few close friends at someone’s home with Shiraz in the foreground, and John Coltrane in the back. Nonetheless, I found myself sitting among a group of friends at a hookah bar one night, with my mind drifting toward existence. I allowed my mind to drift with the suspended clouds of peach-and-mint scented smoke, and watched it slowly dissipate. I sipped my mojito ruminatively, and only occasionally joined in on the laughter and conversation.
The stranger sitting next to me leaned over, and remarked, “You look bored.”
“Do I? No, I’m just really tired,” I lied. You look even more bored, I wanted to say. We continued chatting for a while, mostly uninspired small talk. Occasionally, he paused to smoke from the pipe. I must have mentioned that I was a Philosophy student, since he said, “Ah. I used to teach philosophy.” This piqued my interest.
“Oh cool! Which philosophers do you like the most?” I asked.
“Well, among other things, I enjoy reading Dostoevsky. What about you?” I still wonder why he chose to only mention Dostoevsky.
“I’m not sure…I’ve only taken two classes. I recently took a class on contemporary metaethics, which was just really confusing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, there are just so many conflicting theories that I find compelling or interesting. But I guess one doesn’t really have to choose. I guess why not just allow them to co-exist,” I said nebulously.
“Oh, I think you should always make a choice.”
“Really? How come?”
“Oh of course! Because if no one decides, the theories cease to matter. And if you don’t decide, you’d have no real foundation to live life on,” he said.
I nodded in agreement, convinced by his argument. It made a lot of sense in light of what I had been struggling with, though it was difficult to think of it in that light, after years of dealing with what I considered an uncertainty. In a sense, I was approaching the matter from a difficult angle. Certainly, I do not have the capacity to find out for humans, once and for all, whether or not we are real, but I wanted to decide on existence or non-existence before I formed a way in which it is possible for me to live accordingly.
I let my thoughts on existence steep in that need to believe for yet another year. And gradually, my thoughts began, once again, not to turn to the idea that it may not necessarily matter whether or not we exist. When environmentalism became a full-fledged trend in the world of social issues, and Barack Obama began to talk about change, my thoughts began to turn. It became clear to me that as long as we either really exist, or imagine that we do, our actions will have ramifications whether real or illusory. These consequences still hold meaning for us, regardless of how real humans are.
We should thus truly believe that we really are here, on this earth, living real lives, experiencing real things. Purpose, for instance, draws meaning from, and is inextricably linked with existence in our minds. We find it disturbing to know we may not exist, because it threatens our entire concept of purpose in life – even if it is only restricted to procreation. All values we uphold, all ethics and morality depend on our existence. It is the only way that laws, or social activism, or other human habits are able to find significance. And it is the only way that society can function with any normalcy.
