I want to cry. Cry my eyes out until I feel nothing about any of the bullshit anymore. Maybe then I’d hate that I was numb. But wouldn’t that be better than this?
But my body won’t do it. It won’t cry right now. Usually when I feel this bad I can cry on demand. But not now.
Is this the same as when I left the last bad situation in my life? I had nothing to my name but the safety of a home, and a trusted friend.
Years later, I have all those things again, and yet still another form of desperation.
It’s like maybe it was all pushing me—forcing me—to reinvent myself again. But why always with the upheavals?! And why emotional ones?
Now, again with nothing to show for it. Nothing of my own making, or abundance of my own merit, I feel like I’m just…nothing. Incapable of creating anything, or being anyone.
I know I’m loved. And yet, somehow in this tangible world I feel like maybe that just isn’t enough. It’s only enough in the scope of ALL experience and existence. But in this temporary physical world, I feel like I’m just trash like anything else. Unworthy of the very life force that runs through me. Why am I like this?
Every time I’ve felt like I’ve lost it all, has it felt like this? Or is it just because I’m so late in the game, so old to have to continue going through the same scarcity mentality lessons, that it feels like it’s worse? That I’m somehow worse.
Maybe all the stupid drama of life has always been leading me to really taking my writing seriously. To go all in with no other belief other than this is the life I was always meant to live.
But in the waiting period—the place between the nothingness of spiritual poverty, and the richness of experience and material abundance—I feel lost. I feel worthless. I feel like I’m not even capable of all the things everyone else in the world is capable of, by them simply just being scared to NOT follow the mainstream. Why can’t that be enough for me?
By not expressing myself, why can’t I return to the abundance I was getting from a stupid paycheck, and otherwise no huge worries that I “couldn’t make it” in life? I used to feel like I could. I was making it.
Six figures plus a ton of licit or illicit activities to get rich in life but never living out any true potential. Being great at an easy career that fell into my lap and thriving in it, yet never focusing on my “art.” If I even have any.
What do I do? Why do I feel like I could die today and nothing would be worse for it? Nothing would stop. Nothing would be at a loss. I would just be dust in the wind like anything else. No point that that dust ever had plans or goals or feelings or a spirit. It never made a difference. Life will always go on and this one existence never made a blip in the universe.
And why does that even matter? Why does it matter that I don’t matter? Why even in that thought cant I find relief? Can’t I find solace?
If as a life form this is all I am, why can’t I be at peace with not mattering?
What entity sold me this dream of being something—anything. What sold me the illusion that I had to earn the feeling of achievement? All of it is worthless anyway.
People want to say that everyone and everything matters, and that there’s a higher purpose. But why can’t I be okay even if that’s not true? Why seek when all should be found here within this self?
And if I’m not finding it within this self, what’s wrong with being okay with that, and letting myself go entirely? Why even in that pursuit of soul apathy can’t I feel any type of satisfaction?
Maybe the keywords are “pursuit” and “seeking.” Things I shouldn’t be doing. At least, not to feel a sense of completeness within myself or anything else. So in giving that up, and just being here, being now.—I feel a new apathy because whatever was the point to seek anything when we can find relief in the nothingness?
But then with this new nothingness comes the same feeling of “what’s the point”. I’m here to exist and experience. But none of it is good enough for “me.” None of it is good enough for this finite self. Nothing, not even myself can make me happy.
And maybe that’s the thing: I will always have this melancholy pervading my entire existence, and in that aloneness and withdrawal and retreat and reclusiveness…I can finally be at peace from wanting.
