Enough hiding?

I am unlikely to be anyone's ancestor. Does this contribute to my intellectual paralysis? It is easy to imagine, as you put one foot on the ground after another that you are going somewhere, even if only at a plodding place. It seems at first similarly easy to imagine that you are going nowhere, that nothing has been achieved and no progress is being made whatsoever (progress a dirty word in his lexicon - but we keep coming back to it!). Yet this sense of futility is deceptive. To think true futility takes huge effort. Possibly futility, strictly speaking is unthinkable.

This is the palpable dilemma confronting the great (heroic?) pessimists.... Cioran, Pessoa, Ligotti etc. Their belief or non-belief in futility undermined by their own enterprise. While we live, we struggle, howsoever feebly. I don't mean to suggest that these writers are feeble, on the contrary, their boldness and daring is an inspiration. But what about us others who do not write, who aim only to live out our lives in quietude? Or better, are drawn to communicate, to transmit even on a disregarded wavelength, but lack the heart, the steel, the dark faith in their own 'mission' - even where - if this is the case - notions of 'mission' and 'faith' tumble away into the abyss, suffocated by their own meaninglessness? Not an abyss then, an impasse. Yet in my first entry, I began with the thought of a bridge.