It has been said that a happy disposition does not correlate to longevity; optimism promotes risk taking and heartbreak. What a miserable sentiment. I feel more and more like I am simply giving in; succumbing to sleep as I lay fighting the waves of loneliness that my cold sheets provide. I thrash around to get comfortable generating my own warmth. I lay staring through the television, hand on my abnormally empty stomach. I hear the noises of the night and Moose snoring like a bulldozer as he dreams in his bed next to me. My empty glass is on the night stand, drained after my nightly snack. My belly should not feel as it does.
There are decisions we are faced with in life that come with the absolute certainty of regret. You know that the second you make them, follow through, move forward ignoring the need to scream into the night, that you will spend the rest of your days getting to know guilt on a dramatically intimate level. You will mate with said guilt every night and produce a million theoretic children with it. It becomes painfully apparent that want is not enough. Want is weak. Unless of course, it is the want of another.
We abandon our own wants in attempt to satisfy the bigger picture. Instinct often resembles such larger views. We follow our gut in an effort to avoid making the “wrong” decisions when simply wanting seems to not be a good enough answer. When in doubt, you’re told to always listen to intuition, right? There is no comfort in that though, and typically we use such things as precognitive ideas as an excuse to make decisions based on what we think “the world” would believe to be best. Worse yet, one specific Other who’s opinions and feelings have grown to a level of importance so high that they surpass your own.
Instinct has become less of a genuine compass for leading the way on the best path and instead has devolved into a scapegoat. My awareness of this fact and my inability to steer away from abusing it only makes this god forsaken emptiness more devastating. I have made my bed and I will lay in it. Of course, I can no longer count how many times I’ve said that… it would seem I am destined to spend my existence staring at the four walls in this grave of despondency I seem to find so comfortable. I buy furniture and decorate the walls and try to adjust the general aesthetic appeal, but my dwelling is what it is- 6 feet under and awaiting collapse. It has become apparent that any who feel it necessary to attach themselves to me will be finding themselves buried under the weight of what I myself am doomed to become crushed by.
Stay away from my damage! Get away now while you still can! I will lie to myself and I will lie to you. I will lie to cover up my shame. I will lie to keep my exterior shiny and new. I will lie to keep you. I will lie to push you away. I am despicable and I am broken.
So here I sit, another day and a different person. The same can be said tomorrow… and the day after. I accuse others of being lacking in self, but I am still nothing more than a sketch of a person. My portrait may never be finished. It has also been said that the day we stop learning about ourselves is the day that we die. I feel as if I am simply waiting for that day. There seems to always be things I discover within my own destructed psyche that nauseate me, tear at the fabric of my being and cause me to live in a purgatory of pointless, hopeless wanting. There was a time when I sought self discovery, but now I fear waking up every morning to see the person I might possibly be. As I succumb to the lie of instinct and continue to reconstruct my moral fiber, I feel almost as if I know less than I started with. I have been evicted from purgatory and stepped straight into hell.
“It is true that many young people who love falsely, i.e. simply surrendering themselves and giving up their solitude (the average person will of course go on doing that-), feel oppressed by their failure and want to make the situation they have landed in livable and fruitful in their own, personal way. For their nature tells them that the questions of love, even more than everything else that is important, cannot be resolved publicly and according to this or that agreement; that they are questions, intimate questions from one human being to another, which in any case require a new, special, wholly personal answer. But how can they, who have already flung themselves together and can no longer tell whose outlines are whose, who thus no longer possess anything of their own, how can they find a way out of themselves, out of the depths of their already buried solitude?” –Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet