Although summer draws to a close, my sadness continues.
I tell no one about my continuing sadness because of the adage that ends with “cry and you cry alone.”
I tell no one that I want to be dead because everyone, I’m told, experiences these thoughts of self-denial and self-rejection.
I simply have given up on expecting anything new for myself the rest of my life.
Would it bode well, if they knew, for the people in my life now and the people I’ll meet in the future that although I’ll make them feel like they’re the most important people in my life in the moments I spend with them, it’s the same from moment to moment to me, ad infinitum, making the next person and the next feel important?
How many schoolchildren are self-aware enough to realise the special teachers in their lives were that way?
Is that all there is, just one person after another giving other people feelings of importance, of hope, of love?
Above and beyond the simple act of procreation?
Above and beyond the simplicity of sets of states of energy in motion?
I know it is.
And if that’s the fact, then what’s next?
Is it worth my effort to believe that what we call our species will spearhead space exploration, creating settlements of repurposed ecosystems on other celestial spheroids?
Why do I need to believe that in order to wake up with a feeling of self-worth?
As much as I can wrap my hands, arms and body around another dancer, get as close to dancing as one unit as is possible for me, I still do not completely feel like I can completely connect with another person — this, too, ties in to my feeling of self-worth.
I simply do not believe I am worth anything.
My wife keeps propping me up, keeps me alive for reasons I cannot possibly fathom — we have no children together so it’s not for the sake of keeping her children’s father viable as a meaningful contribution to her children’s success.
I am running out of reasons to stay alive.
I have given up courting another woman to be a mother for my kids because if I don’t believe in myself then I probably won’t find the energy to be a father for my offspring, let alone the fact that I’d probably pass on my narcissistic, pacifistic, suicidal nihilism to them. I’d not wish my true self on my worst enemies.
Instead, I wait to die.
I used to fear being bored.
Now it’s just my daily life — wake, shower, eat dinner, dress, go to work to help save lives of people I’ll never know, masturbate, sleep.
Boredom or depression, I can’t tell the difference anymore and it just doesn’t matter anymore.
I wait to die.
And I wait.
Why do I bother typing here anymore?
I don’t know, other than it keeps my away from my wife and the cats, keeps me away from people and animals I feel obligated to make feel their lives are the most important in the world, which increases my boredom even more.
I’m tired of entertaining people, tired of feeding fantasies, mine or theirs, tired of smiling, tired of living.
The universe is supposed to be a projection of my thoughts, isn’t it?
If it is, shouldn’t I feel better about myself?
Shouldn’t I want more?
Have I really hit the end of life at age 55?
It seems so.
The last decade has been a stretch to stay alive.
I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.
I’ll just sit here and veg out.
Maybe I’ll blog again, maybe I won’t. It doesn’t matter either way.