Llik

My; life.

What is my life. I’ve been working, but it’s hardly been enough to take care of my preoccupations. I don’t know what to think anymore.

We are our thoughts, no? Why is life absurd? Why can’t I take anything seriously? Why do all these earthy pursuits suddenly become tarnished and ruined upon inspection? Everything is fine until I turn inward and take a look at what I have, what I’ve been given. It makes everything terribly silly and trivial. I don’t know what I’m saying.

I’ve been drinking a ton. Wine mostly. Beer every now and then. Some liquer on the weekends when I’m feeling wreckless.

I don’t have anything to say about much, at the moment anyway. I feel dull inside. I’m alive, animated, but somehow absent. I don’t need to diagnose myself. I don’t need to get down and critical and pull apart every historical thought and environmental sensation. I just want to feel full. I want a purpose. I know that’s my responsibility. I definitely understand why people choose religion, why people let other people choose their fate, their thoughts and feelings. It’s terribly paralyzing being responsible all the time. I tell myself: labor, suffering, and love: this tri-fecta of human phenomenon is inescapable, and it’s acceptance is the beginning of fulfillment.  But I always try to escape it, find the easy way out. I seriously find myself getting as comfortable as possible, doing the minimum, asking as little as possible from myself. I know this isn’t entirely true, and I’m mostly bullshitting to myself, which is terrible, but I feel this way sometimes. Summer. Blah. Being young and in school, with no solid direction to speak of. It can be frightening.

Sometimes I think of killing myself. It’s always a back up plan. Not so much a plan, because when it happens it’ll be so damn spontaneous and quick that even I won’t be able to predict it. So I guess when I say plan, what I really mean is alternative path. Or, the shortest path. I’ve heard that everyone has the death penalty: we all die. Sometimes procrastinating, putting it off or delaying the inevitable, is a grave form of denial, an indication of a deep neurosis. The only reason that I’d want to stick around, at this point anyway, is to procreate, wreak havoc on conventionality and societal norms, and dominate. And when I say dominate, I mean exert my influence as far and wide as possible, however or whatever is necessary for achieving that end, sheerly as a means of fulfillment.

Everything else is a side show. Little games. Empty gestures and hallow pantomimes. Ugh. I don’t know anymore. Career. Maybe it’s my mind. Maybe it’s my life, the sum of my experiences that have left me utterly disenchanted. Maybe it’s… fate. Maybe my personality. Maybe studying philosophy wasn’t a great idea, maybe I should have chosen a major that stifled the questions, the inquisitive nature.

I’ve drank quite a lot the past two months. It’s starting to take a psychological toll. It’s not the binge drinking, it’s the incessant drinking that’s becoming a problem. Five out of seven days I’ve drank, for the past two months. That’s really not an understatement. And I’m half concerned. Half. Wine. I love that shit. My aunt and uncle drink a fair amount. Who know’s what’s the acceptable level. They aren’t crazy alcoholics, they just enjoy having wine with meals and conversations, and extending the relaxation periods well into the evening. So anyway. I’m rambling.

I want to do more, follow through, blah blah. I’m bitchin. All this will dissipate. All my thoughts seem to do that, only to be replaced and never remembered again. Drunk.

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