Irrelevant

In my last entry, I posed a question.  It reflected a profound, undeniable, existential anxiety.  In short, I asked "Am I a fool for living my Quixotic life?  Am I tilting against windmills that will batter me as they did Cervantes' Don Quixote, remain standing, and carry on their existence unblemished?"

The question remains unanswered.  Events since my posting and the epiphany they brought have changed the playing field.  Answered or unanswered, the question is irrelevant.

Why irrelevant?  Because, in my own way, I AM Don Quixote.  The outcome of the war is irrelevant. The effect of each battle is irrelevant.  Whether I am actually making much of a difference is irrelevant.  Those things that drive me to mount my steed and take up my lance to live the life of a Knight Errant are not choices I make.  They are who I am.  Somewhere in the twisted wiring of my brain lies the inability to turn a blind eye to suffering, leave ignorance as I found it, or see the windmills in front of me as anything less than monsters.  I haven't chosen this life.  I was built for it.

Unlike Cervantes' Don Quixote, my path was not set by reading old chivalry texts until "his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind."   My path was set by the "miswiring of my brain" combined with the faith that I refuse to merely espouse.  To live differently is to deny meaning and purpose to what has made me who I am, where I am.  Denying my very nature and seeking to be what I am not yields my on path rife with pointless suffering and lessonless hardships.  I can think of few things more tragic than a life lived in desperate struggle to be what one is not.  

Should I be doing what I do?  Am I making any real difference?  Is it the world that's insane, or just me?  All are valid questions.  I can leave them unanswered because their validity is outweighed because who I am weighs far heavier than what I do in existential dilemmas.