By what standard do I quantify my performance? There are so many from which to choose and they tend to contradict each other, nullifying the hope that all might be satisfied at once. Is it ethical code by which I judge my personhood – though, that requires a caveat due to the vast and competing theories on moral truth – or something more along the lines of productivity, i.e. how much stuff I made and experienced? Is it a contemplative strategy, or the spontaneous, broad-chested run towards death that will be lauded with praise?
I have many questions, these are just an introductory few. I am not the only one who shares in wonder at the response, begging the question of detectable objectivity. With so much plausible justification for each path, it seems unlikely that we could be confident or certain when confronted with a Truth that is as provable as any other intangible theory. Truth seems like it would be recognizable, but the rest of the theories are feasible too. Where does one go after having confronted this absurd guesswork of being alive and the unending challenge of doing it “right,” especially when that very reaction might determine one’s status after death? We haven’t even brought spirituality into the question, though that tends to be the looming authority over many individuals’ morality.
I wish I could remove the layers of false premise on value and self worth, such as the shame that stalks the thought of wearing pajamas in the afternoon. I wish I could forget them all and uncover whatever is buried beneath the lattice of influence. I am somehow still failing to prove my worth even as I deny myself attainable and harmless pleasures. While I may reject the baseless logic of the rules, the lingering effects of their authority remain. Collective pressure, quieting doubt, and the tantalizing desire to reject them all battle fiercely for my attention.
In my teenage household, public image and productivity were the virtues of desire. As an adult, I still struggle to allow myself to sleep past 8am because it feels gluttonous; there are things I could be doing, time to be maximized. I can’t shake the compulsion to get fully dressed to leave the house, and maybe this one isn’t so terrible, but why does it even matter if you wear pajama pants or jeans to the grocery store, church, or the movies? Aside from a matter of public indecency, the frivolous stipulations and petty moral judgements we place upon a person’s external presentation has always baffled me. The cloth upon the flesh need not reflect the interior of the soul, brain, heart (wherever you believe the contents of identity lie), especially when the cloth in question is Garfield pajama pants. What could that even mean about someone? It means nothing more significant than that they likely enjoy cartoons, cats, and being comfy.
I don’t think someone’s pants can typically be used to define or quantify their value, but what can? We cling to this notion that there must be some proper blend, some true calculation by which people are measured and evaluated. Maybe it’s true, but there’s no way of knowing which life is the best to live. You cannot be the most good, most productive, and most spontaneous all at the same time, let alone consider the litany of limitless superlatives you can aspire towards. “There exists an obvious fact that seems utterly moral: namely, that a man is always a prey to his truths” (Camus, 31).
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