I feel lost. like the widow who dresses in her sunday best each day for a love no longer there.
I dress up life. Life left longer ago than i thought.
day by day I seek to qualify actions. I add gloss to the faded.
I invent optimism and reasons for nothing greater than just being.
I go on. I get up. wash. eat- dress.
breathe in the bad news over the radio and leave cheerfully.
yesterday is still here. today will be tomorrow.
my temporal prison of irrationality broken into snapshots.
There never was any point to this, this life. and it haunts me.
to fear believing in anything steals your connection to what other people call life.
how can i just see the good when i know and hate that there is so much bad. so needlessly.
how can i forget?
when i am weak i want to un-learn. find the blinkers, slotback into place remember not to qustion. the conveyor belt will take me home.
I can't and won't do that. the is word for why. I just couldn't live in an unconscious state.
Living for the sake of living, is that what it’s really come to?
No anchor in the stormy seas.
Nothing to orbit around, I’m spinning around myself.
Feels like I’m going somewhere, but it’s just circles of indeterminably increasing radius.
Giving a shit when it seems no-one else does, or even cares that you do, just rams home the isolation. The umbilical cord which kept me in the world has been drawn taught and has succumbed to the great tension between the world and myself.
So, now I’m left floating, detached, ,without beliefs, dreams, hope and ambition. Yet able to drift comfortably, sometimes happily, narrowly avoiding the black clouds that haunt my path. Avoiding crushing disappointments by never raising my hopes.
The paradox of my life is this:
If as I claim, nothing matters, for when all is said and done I am the same bleached bony white as the next man, then why do I hesitate so? Why must I remain so cautious and conservative? Is it the meaningless that paralyses me? Or perhaps more simply, I lazily adopt the motto of the fallen man - if nothing matters, why bother?. Perhaps instead I should be chasing the lifestyle adopted by those who brush too close to death’s pale face and fetid stench? Carrot or a stick. That’s the stick, so what’s the carrot?