(For some reason, I rarely have anything to say. But I cannot help feeling compelled to say something now, because how else will I come to terms with these cavernous holes I have dug myself into? On the other hand, how does anyone go about accepting life?)
I have known that I would die for so long that I can't recall ever seeing life as more than a line segment, a short span of time during which I, along with everyone else in turn, would develop, and subsequently deteriorate. To me, life has always been an anxious wait for the hammer to fall while dreading the thought of seeing myself slowly waste away. And yet, I have never wanted for passion, never succumbed to the inevitable self-destruction of my pessimism. Even now, I imagine being free and perhaps being at peace and at ease.
But I do not know what freedom really is, or really feels like; not because I haven't been free, but because I have always felt trapped. Trapped by my own idiosyncratic flaws, all my god awful failings, all the people I've hurt - so many fucking people - trapped by an environment I didn't ask to be brought into, and by painful awareness I might have lived without. I am forever damned by the scars I allowed myself to make, by the weakness that is all my longing and desperation, the love I allowed to wound me and render me bitter and cynical.
So even though it scares me immensely to suggest it, the only solution I have ever employed is fueled by a philosophy that life is short and although joy, for me and many others, is bittersweet, it is the only joy available to you. If we are not all searching for joy, it is only because we have yet to understand it. In spite of all the things I have kept inside and allowed to boil, things which will stay tucked away for the rest of my life, I have found joy. Somewhere outside of ourselves, there is much more to life. I take comfort knowing that a happier world exists outside my head.
