Ground Hog Day, Parade of Ants and The Myth of Eternal Return

It’s always interesting watching movies I’ve seen before with my Know class teacher. My previous viewing and affection for the film always makes deciphering its symbols a little more difficult for me. (That’s what the class is for I suppose.) The change in him seemed clearer with the discussion. My first viewing it always struck me as odd too have a love story that only concluded when the main character had changed everything about themselves. Hardly romantic for the message to be, “You can get the girl! As long as you become a completely different person!” However upon this viewing I felt it to be more complex. It wasn’t enough to want to be wantable, to try to obtain, to try to seem good. He had to spend eternity striving for his best. For kindness, compassion, giving. He had to move with the purpose of betterment to at last be free.
Eternal Return… I can barely even fathom it. I simply don’t see time that way. It’s always just been rot. The process by which one thing fades away and is replaced by something else in the universe. Stars supernova and create nurseries where other stars are born. Those changes mark time. Reincarnation as I have always seen it is startling to me, the idea of being punished for things I cannot remember, or that some part of me lives on but everything that matters about me (choices, connections, memories) is destroyed is unpleasant to me. Anything but comforting, but then, who said the truth would be comfortable? The idea that I would suffer my pains, my boredoms, and enjoy my loves millions of times is so daunting. Would even my dearest friends still be interesting a million times later? Would my loves? Would my art? Would it not all seem so dull after awhile?
I could see it a little in how love is for me I think. It always feels like I’ve just become in love with them (to whatever extent, as an instantly beloved friend, or lover or whatever) and then as time goes on, I discover more about them which strengthens the feeling. Perhaps, having met them, hundreds of thousands, billions, of times before, I need no time to know they matter. I know them already.
Perhaps I have written this sentence a million times. Holding this thought seriously is difficult. Or was, before finding a way to relate it to my senses of my life. (That’s culture for you, the basics so different in ways almost unimaginably alien before giving them proper pause.)
So much of my life feels like it just comes to me. Like words just pour out of my mouth and I discover their truth or untruth. Like I just type words and they reflect my thoughts or at least my training to type thoughts. Or I just love and learn to choose around that which naturally pours from me. Like I am an endless impulse forward. Half conscious, half the time. Observing myself as I say the things boiling in my chest and deciding their truth is enough to just let that occur, for that which is natural to me is so often more true than my machinations.
What would it even be to live differently? To try to break not the cycles of choice and procrastination of this particular life but of my life on a cosmic scale? Or would that be the same thing? What even, is the fate that I am constantly repeating?
What does a knowledgeable human look like in this philosophy? Giving up all loves, foods, lives? How would I be me without my loves, my craving for art? I would lose the things that defined me in becoming holy by this view. I am the movement—impossibly—ever towards an artistic perfection that may or may not be achievable. That pursuit is my pursuit of betterment. I am the pursuit towards knowledge of self and better behavior. What would I be without it?
What is a person without their fictions and dreams? Their impossibilities? Their desires? I suppose I would need a new justification of my existence. A new dream-self to create the new actual self with. I don’t know who that person would be.
What is eternal time? How much more I am wasting if I truly have a endless tries to live this life. How one justify their petty, useless pleasures, like mindless clicking or watching or other forms of things that achieve only pleasure in such a cosmos? How much of eternity have I wasted in my own eyes?
Such guilt in standing too still or moving too fast. That’s life for you.


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