I just had dinner with a good friend, and we were talking about you.
I was telling her how thankful I am for having you. You’re always here. I told her that something is missing in my life, and I don’t know what it is. I told her I’ve tried many things to fill the void, unsuccessfully, but writing helps. I can always turn to you, litter with my words and punctuations, proper or not, and you never complain.
To the world, I’m a dick, an asshole, and a pussy. I don’t always choose properly, and the world just doesn’t forget or forgive. It seems like most of them are perfect, and I’m the outcast. They judge me by a higher standard than they themselves live. I guess it’s my own fault, after all; I’m god, right? Perhaps not the god of creation, but I’m the the creator of my life. My words and my actions all mold my daily experiences and reshape my failing memories of failure. I want more for people, I want more for me; I want, often.
Who reads this? Anyone? I can’t remember the moment I stopped caring. I was once obsessed with knowing how many eyeballs read my virtual scribbles on the virtual bathroom stall. It doesn’t matter anymore. The word is out that I am a monster, factual or not. I have no goals, I have no dreams, I have no destination. I just want more.
Nobody feels my pain. I smile, I joke, I help whomever I can; but I am slowly decaying. The demons strum their cords, drowning me in sorrow, and I beg for the release, for the flooding to seep through my eyes. It never happens, I just slink through the days, avoiding humanity for fear of being hated, or worse, showing my sorrows. I’m better than that, right? I have no reason to complain. My life is wonderful. But is it? Why can’t I stop wanting? Why do people pull away when I’m starving for closeness? Why do I push them away?
I expect a world that doesn’t exist. I am obsolete. Out of time. Out of place. These dots, however, are exactly when and where they belong. Thank you for the cadence. Thank you for order. Thank you for sense in a senseless universe.
When I last wrote, I weaved the tale of a man named David and his encounter with, seemingly, the Devil. The words came from me, so I can’t help but search them for deeper meaning. I wondered which of the characters was I? I would have assumed that I was David, but the more I review, the more I relate to the man in the hat.
I’m not the Devil, but I could see how he would be seen as evil. He gives us what we ask for, getting nothing in return but the gift of survival. He’s a brute, however. If you were to tell him that you’d love to fly, he would catapult you through the air, and you’d fall to your death. He gave you what you wanted, he just didn’t consider its consequence as a negative. He sees the past and present, but disregards the future. That’s me. I choose, basing my decisions on the past and the present. I feel that things will work out in the future, but I m1scalculat3 often. My choices make sense while considering the now and the then, but in a second I will feel the waves of pain slamming against my logic. They bend my line of reasoning, waves breaking my peace. I doubt myself so much, how have I fallen so far from my soul?
I am blind to my own faultiness. I still believe I have learned from the past, and I am capable of choosing better. However, each time I choose, I end up feeling devastated by my choice. Every step I take puts me further into the darkness, soon I’ll fail to see the way back. Luckily, now I am aware of this, as I have been every time, so my next choice will be better, as my last one was, and the one before that. Do you see the problem? Every time I think I know better, I do worse. How do I escape this pattern?
Words. They are my tool. They are the only way I can keep track of my errors reliably. I look back at these words, and try to recall the thoughts and feelings I had when I wrote them. It’s an out-of-body experience. I am no longer that guy. I’m not the guy who started this blog, not the guy who loved Wii games, not the guy mesmerized by Colorado, not the guy interested in evaluating dating sites, not the guy who said the things this blog conveys.
I am the evolution of that man, or should I say regression? I learn more and more about myself every time I put these words down, and upon reading them, I realize that I have so much to learn. Unfortunately, every lesson turns me into a worse human being. What is the point?
Ignorance is bliss. I believe that because I have lost my ability to be ignorant, and I’ve coincidentally misplaced my bliss. I keep absorbing more and more every single day that passes, painfully aware of my closeness to terminal velocity, but I continue to fall into this abyss of want. When will the parachute deploy? Is there a failsafe? Can someone help me slow down at least?
Where have I gone? Why do I not recall myself? When does this evolution start to have a purpose?
One day, long ago, I read that the meaning of life is the accumulation of knowledge between birth and death. Is this living? Knowing more and feeling worse for it? Send me back to the beginning so I can stop myself. Give me some guidance, at the very least. What’s the moral of this story? Who’s the hero? When do I get my Aha! moment?
“Hell if I know,” said the Devil. Little did he know the razor-sharp preciseness of those words.