random musings on an otherwise shitty day.
January 30, 2004 @ 3:22 p.m.
-- Of course I admire all the ones more bright and intellectual than I am, but don't they seem, on the most part, miserable? It seems that the more you learn of this world, the more awful you realize this world truly is. How selfish people are. How much pain is here. I have moments of extreme empathy for strangers to the point of tears, and I wonder if it's like that for anyone else. Just moments of inability to breathe because you feel that if you would, you would die. And you don't even know these people! You hardly know their situation at all, except what you can judge physically, and yet you weep for them. I wonder if that happens to anyone else ever. I wonder if it happens to the intelligent ones. Or if they are just so full of malaise and learning and emptiness that they can't even feel empathy anymore.
The ones who commit suicide, or go insane -- you have to wonder if they don't actually have a point to it all. A method to their madness, if you will. Sometimes I feel as though moving would break me, as though being responsible and stable for one minute more would just break me. Because it isn't the large dramas that happen every once in a while that break you. It is the day-to-day living, where nothing you do or accomplish seems to work toward a goal -- rather, it is all just steppingstones through seconds of your life only pieced together because it seems like the thing to do.
I get so bored sometimes thinking of the future because mostly I know it contains moments like this. Searching, battling for happiness, or a place to belong, or a way to forget. Mostly just being, because it takes too much effort to do much else. And feeling. Forever feeling, because for some reason I can't stop feeling. The empathy. The rejection. The longing. The emptiness. It's always there, it's forever there.
Sometimes I feel like I honestly have a story to tell, because everyone has a story to tell. Unlike most published (and many many unpublished) writers, however, I don't find my life to be interesting enough to print. Perhaps that's why I relegate it to an online diary. There's a place for my story and it is here. I'm afraid it won't be interesting enough to be printed anywhere else, and for what it's made of, that's understandable.
I spoke to a professor of mine today about taking risks. He's fascinated by the fact I've only taken two risks in my life -- or so I say. I'm more fascinated by the fact that I still live under such strict codes, dictated by others and followed ever-so-obediently by me. I don't take risks. I don't make mistakes because I don't want to embarrass my mother. I don't do things I say I'm going to do, like get a tattoo or take road trips or (for Chrissakes) be happy because I'm too concerned with whether others will be satisfied with my decisions.
I want to live. I want to live. All I am doing now is vehemently existing. I want to take risks, because they have payoffs. Nothing I do now serves any meaning or has any payoff. There is no meaning to it and therefore without meaning there is no happiness. Happiness derives from meaning, I'm certain of it.
And I keep putting it all off.
<< | >>
- - March 22, 2010
always the same - July 01, 2008
b-a-n-a-n-a-s! - December 25, 2006
elementary again - October 29, 2006
I don't like you, but I love you - October 03, 2006