Away at last from the swirl of people running around, making excited plans for the future, proudly displaying to the world that they are in pursuit of a higher purpose. Their energy always gets me down, reminder as it is that maybe I was once like that. Or not; I don't really remember that well, but I'm not particularly inclined to get to the bottom of that matter. In any event, what matters is that right now, energetic is what I'm not. This evening, like many evenings, I feel like a piece of driftwood, aimlessly floating to whatever shore happens to be closest. Even writing down these thoughts takes up dangerously close to all the stamina I have left.
The glimmers of hope that trap themselves in my mind ever so often are swiftly exhumed by my overpowering sense of cynicism, which is now indistinguishable from my sense of reality. It's admirable to try to escape your fate, sure, but tonight, I wonder whether I'm not better off just accepting a few things once and far all. This journey I shall travel alone; my life's course isn't likely to change anytime soon; and happiness, while never totally elusive, is simply not mine to hold with any permanence.
That last one is particularly worth fronting up to. It's now 12 years since last I remember having a year where there weren't blocks of time lost to some combination of extreme self-loathing, misanthropy, and lack of any positive external influence. I don't doubt a lot of this is circumstantial, but those other two points are such that they mean these circumstances are unlikely to change radically. The pragmatist in me thus asks to simply be thankful for the days where I wake up with something to believe in, and to not be too dismayed to find myself confronted with gaping holes where the future is supposed to be. I ought to be used to that by now.
Why do I always seek the rip in a silver lining? I don't remember being born this way; rather, I seem to have grown up all wrong, never content with what I have, always lamenting what I have lost. I certainly wouldn't suggest to the bright young faces that such flaws can't be rooted out. But only while you're still young. Fat good all these trite realisations do me now, as everything I could've held onto has been taken away. My bed is made, and someone is forcing my eyes shut.
The glimmers of hope that trap themselves in my mind ever so often are swiftly exhumed by my overpowering sense of cynicism, which is now indistinguishable from my sense of reality. It's admirable to try to escape your fate, sure, but tonight, I wonder whether I'm not better off just accepting a few things once and far all. This journey I shall travel alone; my life's course isn't likely to change anytime soon; and happiness, while never totally elusive, is simply not mine to hold with any permanence.
That last one is particularly worth fronting up to. It's now 12 years since last I remember having a year where there weren't blocks of time lost to some combination of extreme self-loathing, misanthropy, and lack of any positive external influence. I don't doubt a lot of this is circumstantial, but those other two points are such that they mean these circumstances are unlikely to change radically. The pragmatist in me thus asks to simply be thankful for the days where I wake up with something to believe in, and to not be too dismayed to find myself confronted with gaping holes where the future is supposed to be. I ought to be used to that by now.
Why do I always seek the rip in a silver lining? I don't remember being born this way; rather, I seem to have grown up all wrong, never content with what I have, always lamenting what I have lost. I certainly wouldn't suggest to the bright young faces that such flaws can't be rooted out. But only while you're still young. Fat good all these trite realisations do me now, as everything I could've held onto has been taken away. My bed is made, and someone is forcing my eyes shut.
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