Friday, June 20, 2014

The despair of failing to deal with the failure of dealing with despair.

When I'm all filled up with anxiety, I gasp with short, staccato exhalations, like some kind of dysfunctional panic attack. This is the way I express despair, by puking up oxygen. Why is that the overriding motivator in my life? Despair? It's very uncomfortable and I don't like it. I assume that there are some people whose lives average out on the right hand side of zero. Right? That's true, right?

The me I sense inside of myself is a misshapen caricature of something that used to be, or might have been, or could have been good at some point in somebody's memory. What is this ongoing thing that's happening with my being awake time? It feels like I'm surrounded by a polluted cloud of defective potentials, continually collapsing like an elaborately set up domino fall which leads straight to hell. Is this all my fault, that I don't know how to be strong, or just ain't strong enough to figure out how? I don't like it and I don't want it, but it sure feels like I'm stuck with it, so is that my fault?

I know that these are terrible things to think. But I have this compulsion to express myself, and when I start up that machine, this is the stuff that comes out. This ugly thing that I've just written is the common denominator by which the moments of my life are divisible.

As an alternative, I could either lie or just write nothing at all.

On the bright side, I'm pretty sure it doesn't have to be this way... but that's kind of like saying, "I'm pretty sure there's a million dollars in gold buried somewhere."

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