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I'm in a perpetual phase of transition which doesn't seem to be phasing out.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

I’m on a mission to feel more and more incomplete

This feels sincere. But it also feels like someone already said it or it’s already been written, a million times, worded a million times better. Then I wonder, “am I just chanelling shit I’ve read by other people, or do I occasionally have totally original thoughts?” All of our ideas have to come from somewhere. Oh how terrible it is to feel perpetually trite and alive at the same time. 

Am I seeking fulfillment or reassurance that I will always be unfulfilled, or that the world is perpetually unfulfilling, or that I can never be satiated because there is so much in the world to be known? Or am I just hiding from the emptiness within myself by reading about the emptiness of everything else to the extent that I don’t feel empty, because I understand what these people are saying and criticizing, and am therefore safe from their finger pointing? Oh haha! The world really is that way, how terrible! How God fucking awful! Oh woe is me!

I am a part of this world though. It’s unavoidable until death comes knocking; my loathsome friend, or my beloved enemy, he’s both, and views me quite neutrally, almost coldly, but with such a profound aloofness that it is only me who feels the chill of his entrance. Its only fear I feel. And then I’ll be taken out of this place I love to hate so much, without ever knowing the depths of my heart. No,no, I will quite possibly live a great, long life. I’ll grow to be so old that I will have filled my heart with so many people and places and things, that the depths of it will be unreachable only because I’ve found so much joy that there’s no need to go digging through my heart to its bottom anymore like I try to do now in my mind. And that’s the scariest thing in the world to me. Filling my heart with joy. Sounds like a magnet my mother would put on the refrigerator or a placard in my grandmother’s bathroom. Above the toilet. Fancy that. There’s even joy in shitting sometimes come to think of it. I run from contentment like the plague. In a fear that it will eat me alive and turn me into just another one of those people in the photos that come in a picture frame when you buy it. Funny thing is, I’ll look around a room and see people and think “god people are boring” and then I remind myself that I’m just one more person. Just one more animal, just one more cell in a non-vital organ of the universe. Earth is a gallbladder. But I still feel like I have something to say before I die. I’m just never quite sure what that is. Maybe it will just be an insightful quote by someone smarter than me that I’ll forget to put quotations around and it will go on my tombstone. I guess it’s healthy narcissism to assume people might read some of my shit when I die.