Sometimes when I reflect on the main difference between me and the majority I conclude that the nub of the issue is how at home in life most people appear to be. It seems that no matter what happens, no matter what vicissitudes must be endured, no matter how many disasters are threatened and befall, most humans take a natural pleasure in the mere state of being itself. Regardless of everything, most are glad to be alive; being is identified with goodness and death is most definitely not a consummation devoutly to be wished. (Not that I’ve ever particularly desired death, just a different form of being.) Perhaps a neologism is required: Ontophilia, a love of being. (Just googled this and discovered that the word has already been coined. Darn).
Although I do appreciate the good things of life (sunshine, friendship, music and so on), and I’ve tried to train myself to be grateful for them rather than succumb to absolute despair, I am sad to report that the sheer natural joy in being that the majority possess, which enables them to frolic in the fields of life no matter how many wolves are lurking, does not appear to be a strong feature of my constitution. I’m too sceptical, too suspicious, too conscious of the misery and suffering of the world (I mean in an abstract sense; I’m no saint), and well aware that disaster can strike at any moment. So I am sad to report that I am no ontophiliac; my loss, no doubt.