Hugh Munn

Discussion of suicide.

Hugh Munn had a secret.

An enigma wrapped up in a conundrum, encapsulated in a misunderstanding, giving birth to a phantasm? He called it his life, sort of.

In other words, he was like anyone else.

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Hugh! How do you do?

 Asked everything around him. Really! You can hear the voices in your head, can’t you? Most of us don’t listen that hard. But everything else does.

That’s the thing about reality. Always listening. And we are the deaf and blind leading the…

“What you need to know!” screams the headline as it takes us by the hand and leads us down a curly path to what must happen. Ever notice how, these days, everything has to happen?

When did that start?

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“Hugh! Don’t forget to get the milk!

It was not so much the words but the intent. The assumption is that the milk will stay put and not be moved.

It lives in that display case, gleaming and perfect. Like so many others, thousands lined up each in their perfect bag. Cold wetness and consistency such as God could not create!

Hugh Munn must be the problem. That is why he always forgets the milk.

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Hugh Munn! What a funny name you have!

Did your parents want to raise a joke that would last a lifetime? Or was it an honest mistake?

Oh, don’t answer! I wouldn’t want to put you on the spot. Some things happen to us that have no explanation!

Like living itself.

Remember when you were so angry at your parents? That time when you didn’t get what you wanted? Oh, I know you no longer remember what it was all about. Something stupid and inconsequential. But what came out of your mouth was never forgotten.

I didn’t ask to be born!

The perfect put-down for parents trying to be parents, don’t you think?

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Hugh! I know your story before you so much as open your mouth!

Because all our trying too hard has its place. In the scheme. Of things. Such old, tired words. Like there ever was a scheme to begin with!

Or was there a scheme? And we have forgotten how it goes, like some ancient childhood rhyme that we half remember. You know you know it. That last verse, how does it go?

I once was a child,

Of life.

???

How does it go? The details of life swallow the message. Whole. Digested into the minutia of meaninglessness. There can always be less of us when more of everything that doesn’t matter is needed! I wouldn’t want all those perfect milk bags to suffer needlessly! Forgotten in their bins.

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Hugh, how would we know that life is ultimately meaningless if meaning did not somehow exist?

Oh boy! Turn the whole world on its head in a single sentence. I can see the headline now:

Amateur Philosopher Discovers What Cannot be Discovered!

It just cannot be. Light floods a dark room, so we know we are in the dark. But what if there is no light? Like so many believe these days.

Then, is the light our darkness? Explain how we know that life is ultimately meaningless when everything is random to begin with!

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So, Hugh! Which came first? The chicken or the egg?

It's such a dishonest question. The chicken wouldn’t exist without the egg. The egg wouldn’t exist without the chicken. Why not ask what is a yellow?

But meaninglessness is great at asking questions like this.

Sorry Hugh. You need to feel small.

It's all the perfection that lives now. We are the afterthought. The birth mess of what had to be. There is no operating manual to life, just whoever screams the loudest!

So on with the rage! Against everything and anything! Let’s see. Someone’s rights are being trampled.

Let’s be off to the barricades!

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In place of God, we still have the relentless quest for perfection—an afterthought, in place of what once served for purpose and meaning.

If only we solved this problem, the purpose would be served. Meaning is found in the endless quest, not for God, but for humans to be actualized. Just one problem. Solving one problem only leads to the next bigger one.

We battle viruses until we can create them. We fight wars until we can destroy ourselves.

The infinitude of our developing power leads to our deification. Yet we are unworthy and unable to be gods!

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But I digress. It is all too plain and clear. If, when solving a problem, we create greater problems, how can this be the right way?

A simple solution to everything. Infinite. We search for what we recognize instantly, what we have always wanted. What we so seldom get.

I could go on and on. If God does not exist, we might as well say no to love, too, for both are infinite.

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Now Hugh! How do you do?

I saw your suicide note. Why not a novel? Explain in detail how life is not what you expected when no operating manual exists! When life is supposedly random, no less!

Or do you reach for what must indeed exist at times like this? So extraordinary. No manual for life. Only one for death!

The ultimate inversion. A mockery of all things living.

You think you are so special. But so many feel this way. What is suicide but a reversion to the mean? A recognition of a harsh reality? What else can it be if everything is random?

That one won’t pass on their genes! It was meant to be!

Overwhelmed by circumstance. No rudder to guide. This is what having no operating manual for life can lead to.

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Then I met you. Finally, we wintered under a solemn moon, asking no questions. What questions could give the answers that a single moment such as this could give?

It wasn’t your hair. Or your smile. It was the rapture of what might be. Whole. Not anything that ever existed or had an explanation. Or a reason. For what kind of living has living as its object?

It is not my life, a stranger to what could not be imagined. It's funny how surprised we can be by what can be explained. It’s biology! It’s psychology! It’s God! No, it's me being me! And you being you!

We can never have what we want until it arrives unannounced. Like so many things we take for granted that cannot be named.

Happiness. So called after the fact.