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Sunday, March 22, 2015
A life lived in vain. That's what I want on my tombstone. Because if I wasn't able to make a statement in life, I should make one in death. Every day is a struggle, and yet every year I make it through. This doesn't make it uplifting, no. What is the point of moving through yet another year if it doesn't get better. What difference does it make if reaching the end of the year only wins me another of the same. What is the value in staying alive just because the alternative is not a socially viable option. The zombie apocalypse is right here and now. Empty shells planted right amongst the living.The best way to live life is to not question yourself. Then you can head forward in a steadfast manner, never looking back, just racing towards a sure goal. Yet for those who gravitate towards introspection the clumsy way that I do, every step needs a reason, every move demands a rationale, and in the end, my carefully crafted proposal is a failure because it doesn't acknowledge that the critics don't know what they want. They say the want purpose, reason, beauty in logic, but at the end of it all, primal impressions lead people by the nose and seduces them into post-rationalization for something they've already decided that they like. I know this in my head but I am so governed by the system that I have been conditioned by since young, that I refuse to heed its advice, and I go on, in this mistaken steadfastness that poorly imitates the real deal. I do not think, but I feel that I am worth nothing. I make choices that I stick with, but only because I am a hopeful romantic. No, a romantic hopeful. Romantic notions of letting se slight hope sustain me through life, so I can savour the flesh of my fruits of labour at the end, which is always 5 steps from wherever I am. There is no end point. There is no rest. Not even if I sleep a thousand hours, although I am closer than any to that. Sleep feels good, because I don't have to think. I don't have to do. I can be dead without being dead. Without suffering the judgement of those who think I have so much to live for although they know nothing about what I actually live for. But don't worry, neither do I. There are many people I live for but the pain eases a little when I relieve myself of the need to consider their feelings. Oh, the guilty pleasures of selfishness. Only allowed in little rations I give myself at night. So far this semester I have lived in an almost steadfast manner. I reflected very little, and busied myself with activities although the value of which I cannot argue for. To tell you the truth, I was happier than I ever was previously. But who can live like that for so long? how many activities will it take to fend off the bits and pieces of doubt and questions that grow increasingly aggressive? There are many happy moments that I look back on, and they sadistically cut into the credibility of my depressive mood, but those happy moments are so fragile. They get eclipsed so easily by a moment of feeling rotten. What good are they. |
Drakon
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