I feel the crushing weight of responsibility, the dread of consistent failure, and the overall ineptitude to turn it all around, to pivot, to find anything. I don't know if this emptiness is new, or merely an exacerbated symptom of circumstance.
Few cheap joys are taken in the process of living, and such abundant hope in the prospect of release. Aside from the passing thoughts of being a husk of my former self's dreams and ambitions, I find a recurring thought in my absurd search for a purpose in this desert, the question: am I simply the role of the tragedy to develop the stories of those around me? The thought invades and roots itself in my mind, that I have no true agency or further construction in this world, but rather a simple final defining act will simultaneously establish and conclude my role in this 24 year long fight has produced? This is prima facie ridiculous, but in this absurdity where searches for meaning are numerous and answers ever so nonexistent, who is to call such life accusations nonsense? It contrasts so vivid and wildly with my biologically burned and psychologically trained (?) desire to live into a respectable age, to tire endlessly building a life I may reflect on fondly--to love and to have lost, to be a father and bring the joys of the future into being, to be free, to be impactful, to convince myself it all isn't simply in vain--how do you re-engineer a machine set on self-destruction? How do you rip apart computer code without a blue screen? How do you sanitize your hands while leaving behind and alive all the good bugs?
Perhaps I've spent so much time peering outwards I've neglected my core. I can say few things with certainty, and so that I say all the more doubtful. I fear for only emulating thought, only erecting a facade of reflection.
I once feared the depths of the dark.
But now I know my fear is in never again feeling passion or joy in anything.
To be gifted with a bountiful life truly is unsettling, because at the center of it all, my mind turns: why?
Fear is no mind killer.
Fear holds the hand and stays the feet.
Despair, dread, regret--only this invigoration of the deadly past can drag anyone under.
There are no answers, no right and wrong, only grey.
The world is grey.
DFWYNLM # 173
Comments