Here I am, 30 years old, miserable, cynical, and fucking exhausted. Facebook asks me "What's on your mind?" I scroll through a perpetual page of people who have something to share that's either funny, trivial, intent on provoking mainstream political correctness, or something intellectually pertinent or proximal to their current lived experience. Taking into account the collective, they're all beyond my grasp of reality, they all seem happy, content, proud of their own personal achievements, and have a definitive share of influence over their respective audiences. Only thing I use the medium for is looking up ex's, rubbing one out to the memories and shortly after, regretfully reminding myself of their not so attractive/corrosive/volatile qualities. In the meantime I'm inadvertently reminded of how much my life sucks, how detrimental my past decisions have become, and why it's so difficult for me to let go of my self-loathing complex.
I hate myself for a collection of reasons. Some reasons are simple, some more complex, others are skeletal remains pouring out of full closets... No matter what I seem to accomplish in life, I know something is lurking in the shadows ahead, bloodthirsty and intent on reminding me how damaging the slightest bit of hubris can be. Whether it be life experience, academic credentials, some $$$$ put in savings to get ahead; I have no expectation of the stars aligning, no rejuvenated spirit to ride, no hopes and dreams of seeing any light at the end of any tunnel. The individual reading this might see a pattern developing here, but I'll cut you off at the pass; unlike the butt-hurt parasitic whiners of yesteryear, I'm unique. I have an innate sense of personal accountability when it comes to my outlook, attitude, and my lack of positivity. In a sense, I don't think I'm wired in a way that would ever allow, or for that matter, find the slightest hint of solace in someone else's sympathetic offerings.
Nothing brings more happiness than throwing myself upon some laborious mundane task. I find refuge in the sweat and the dirt. It distracts my carcinogenic thoughts, and allows me the opportunity to forget the cancer breeding inside me, and affords me the option of ignoring the collapsing world around me. Hopefully my heart just gives out or a bubble ruptures behind my eyes. I'd much rather be the man who died with a hammer in his hand than the man who bled out on a wooden cross, with an audience in his eyes, and nails in his wrists.
-^- Pulse
