God, I’m so scared of myself. Right now, I doubt that anything can save me. What a horrifying feeling to be shown that the very center of your existence is rotten to the core. What’s more terrifying is to see that all of the work you’ve done to paint over the scars you’ve had from birth can all be undone in one moment of misguided passion. One lapse-one slip of the foot and the tightwire is steadily flying upward.
The worst part is that you can’t adapt to it, like you can adapt to external situations. The condition of your soul cannot be adapted to, because it is what defines you. Despite what the existentialists say, acting differently cannot change your soul-at least not all of the time. People go to great lengths to do things that will make them better people. If we had not all grown up with this phenomenon, we would find it amazingly strange how much people do out of guilty obligation, or frantic penance.
I might venture as far as to say that people spend 90% of their time trying to make up for the stuff they did during the other 10. Most of this is for personal reasons-because most “good deeds” feel even better to the doer.
In my case, being the “good kid” feels good because it is comfortable-it has been my role in most of my social and family groups. This makes “good deeds” especially easy for me-I’ve always done “the right thing”, which often makes them especially automatic, and insincere. Sincere good will is hard to find. Almost as hard to find as consistency. Why is consistency so hard?
Lately, despair has visited often, closely following obligation. I vaguely know what I could do to help most of the people I know, but knowledge seems to only make action that much more difficult, especially when I realize that all of life runs together. I’m faced with an onslaught of people and tasks that need both love and discipline and as I look at the forever growing hoard, the more people and places I see the harder it is to summon the strength to even move. I’m tired, with no hope of rest without sacrificing someone I know.
I am not being self-centered, just trying not to look away while opportunities for good slip away forever. There is definitely a seriousness about life that many are better not even knowing about. It’s the oblivious who are envied-the children and those who act like children, because they are not burdened by knowing that there is far more work to be done than strength to do it all. Not to mention, men are incapable of selfless love necessary for most of the work needed to be done.
I feel like there is an infinite amount of love and work to give and do, and I am incapable of even the smallest of tasks-I can’t even come to terms with my own rottenness. I’m a car, broken down in the night with long days of traveling ahead of me.
Why do I write so hopelessly?
Because I am without hope. And so is every other human being.
your move
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