Same thing, day after day, over and over and over. Get up. Eat. Exercise. Eat. Fuck around on the computer. Sleep. I’m bored by my own existence, by the pointlessness of it. It continues yet I feel as though I am not a part of it, only some distant observer uninterested in what is occurring because it is not my life. It’s so wrong to wake up alive, it’s so wrong to breathe when there is nothing to live for but a secret hope that things will somehow miraculously improve. I just have to ask one question: what the fuck can be improved?
I’ve come to the conclusion that there is very little that will satisfy me, get me to anywhere near that idea of “contentment” that people talk about. I know I’ll never have happiness, so I set my sights lower. But even that goal seems completely unattainable. Again, I ask, what the fuck can be improved? I don’t know what I want, and for the first time in my life that really bothers me. If I don’t know what I want, I obviously can’t improve anything. This numbness is all-consuming. Every aspect of my life has been clouded over in its fog, leaving me feeling lost and empty. I don’t know anything anymore, and I hate it; it’s the worst feeling.
I’m always late to hear things, but the other day I discovered Anne Rice’s site (you know, the author), and was irrationally angry that she had gone from being an atheist most of her life back to being a Catholic like she was when she was young. Renouncing her books in a way, too, that was the moment where I instantly decided I didn’t like her anymore. You never condemn the past, especially one full of ideas that you nursed for so long…. There had to be a reason why you believed those things, it doesn’t just disappear! The truth is, I fear becoming like that. I fear giving up everything I am because I get tired of fighting a losing war. Complacency is unacceptable. If I ever become like that, lazy and tired of fighting, then I truly am something that deserves suffering, some sort of hell.
It all leads back to the question: what do I want? And the answer is there, it’s right there where it has always been. Before I die I want the world to know that I am not like them, that I don’t have to be this generic “unique” that everyone else is. I stand alone, all alone. They chastise me because they fear what I reflect back at them. My eyes are full of anger and hate, while theirs are full of “love” and complacency. I am everything they avoid being. Everything they were taught never to be. I may be weak and wretched, barely alive, but my words are stronger than theirs can ever be. All because I believe in them. I am not scared into faith like they are, and not just faith in God, but faith in others. I don’t require such things; my emptiness can never be filled by a God or another person, it can only be repaired and filled by myself.
God and love are band aids. People use them to cover over the spots that are empty. But that’s just it…the hole is still there, it is always there. That is why they fear dying, because they were never completed.
I want to finally gather the courage to pull all of my writing together, to make it into something…to make it worth something. Otherwise it will just rot and fade away like my body will. Everything would have been for nothing. I have to do it, somehow. I have to get the willpower, the drive to try, even if it means failing. I have to try.