The Eternal Worry of a Philosophical Mind

I’m an over analyzer, and what’s worse, I am a philosophical one. Like your textbook over analyzer, my mind whirls into overdrive at the slightest provocation; unlike most analyzers, though, my hyperactive brain is not computing rational conclusions but rather spiraling off into metaphysical implications. I consider every possible situation and every possible consequence…and then I consider the impossible ones; I consider the irrational ones, and the secondary irrationalities. What will happen if I say that, and what does it mean? What does it mean if I say nothing? I cannot not think about everything I do—what does that mean? I am absolutely obsessed with meaning. Well not obsessed with meaning itself, so much as obsessed with the search for it, because I pride myself on the cynic’s stance of never trusting anything as certain. Thus discovery of meaning is a fleeting delight, quickly replaced by more questions and a greater than ever uncertainty; back to the chase. This search for meaning is enjoyable, but whether that is a consequence or reaction to the fact is irrelevant; it is not a choice for me, and God save my soul if I ever lose gratification in the process that is so intrinsic to my being. I must enjoy searching for meaning because it is all I know to do.

But what I really love are the rare times when I am afforded respite from this constant analysis—when I can distract my mind in order to free myself from its constant clatter.

It is generally believed that there are two primary ways of achieving this freedom from thought: by wiping your mind blank or overloading it with distractions, but I believe those are not mutually exclusive. You can overload your mind so that it actually becomes as crystal clear as the koi pond consciousness of someone meditating. The easiest way of accomplishing this is the apex of all feelings; when I experience orgasm, I revel in the bliss of a temporarily blank mind, a tabula rasa of consciousness. For those few moments my mind is devoid of all thoughts, pushed out by pure ecstasy, a strange crossbreed of nirvana and party drug. My mind has been overloaded with emotions, the circuits fried by a shockwave of unadulterated feeling. I float on that cloud of tranquility for a second—a long second, an eternal second…

…but immediately after that feeling fades, the gears of my mind start going again, even faster now, lubricated with post-coital elation. Wasn’t that the best feeling ever? No, really, is there any better feeling in the world? Is there anything better in life than that feeling? Why would I want to do anything else besides experience that feeling? Did I just meet God? Was that the feeling of divine encounter? What was a second before merely blissful vacation from the normal human state of worry has suddenly been turned into a life-shifting epiphany against my will. The come down off big O is supposed to be more mild than any other drug, but not if my own mind sabotages my happiness with thoughts of destiny and purpose.

Analysis is good. Over analysis is bad. Philosophical over analysis? Just be glad I don’t say most of my thoughts out loud. And that you didn’t just have sex with me.

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