The Water Planet

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.

I wait.

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.

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Belly full of laughs

Here in my hand the universe pulsates.
Here, the stuff of the universe resides.
Here, I hear waveforms, feel rhythms, detect patterns.

All sets are temporary combinations.

The sets of states of energy we call humans, the species Homo sapiens,
Create for themselves selective pattern markers they call history,
Reducing planetary changes within a changing universe down to
Anthropocentric stories told so children can repeat as the truth
Whether they believe the stories or not.

Does the oak tree tell a story to an acorn?

What story does the bee tell the hive?

Sets built upon sets, all interconnected.

Does the Sun tell Jupiter their shared history, why they rotate around each other?

I have no children,
No offspring to perpetuate stories for our ancestral heritage.

But I have nieces, nephews, cousins and friends — mostly younger —
Ones with whom I share stories
Both culturally significant and the stuff of urban legends,
Sometimes with a punchline,
Sometimes with a punch.

I do not expect to be remembered after I’m gone,
Only significant enough for others to recall my face and perhaps my name,
Maybe a biographical detail or two when we meet and talk.

I don’t know much about my bloodline ancestors…
I can trace my family tree, can place family members on parts of Earth
During major anthropocentric historical changes,
But I can’t tell you what they looked like, thought, dreamed, accomplished
Outside of birth, marriage, offspring, divorce, death
(Maybe a few governmental assignments and societal achievements).

I can recite artificial numbers assigned to Earth’s revolution around the Sun:
1066,
1492,
1776.

I can even place at least one ancestor on the North American continent associated with that last number.

But what does it really mean to me?

I mean, really, now, here, at this moment, on the Interwebs, typing electronic poems,
Saying what I want within the confines of polite society?

Do I care about the freedoms that have allowed me to be here?

Do I care about the restrictions that have prevented me from being somewhere else?

I can pretty much travel to any point on this planet and within a few hundred miles of the surface, given enough money, travel visas and space travel training.

Is that not enough freedom?

What more could I possibly want?

The only fears I have are being homeless, broke, feeling incurably painful, locked in a prison with undesirables, socially isolated…

The joys are endless because my view of the universe, including our species, is endlessly entertaining, filling me with happiness.

Dark memories of my youth still pass through my thoughts but I know, because of friends who suffered similar, if not worse childhood conditions, and support me, that the thoughts will fade away and total happiness return.

I live to laugh and have fun, not worrying about a legacy or making historical changes on my own.  My impact on the planet is small, completely insignificant on galactic scales and that’s as it is for all of us, despite our storytelling efforts that seem to turn some humans into gods.

A brief sketch…

Cup of hot tea, Bigelow English breakfast, brewing…

Any relation to Bigelow Aerospace?
If not, the mere thought of such links them…
Sets of states of energy in motion…
Like social media posts that link people who’ve never met…
The tea grower’s child growing up to love space and live aboard the BEAM module on the ISS…
Such fortune we find in quiet moments…
Contemplating possibilities.

Concrete

In these wee morning hours, I choose either to text you directly or here in this blog when words I want to share with you more universally represent feelings toward a generic You rather than within the relationship we have.

But there’s also a fuzzy area.

For instance, me being childless, well, I admit for more than one reason I want you, most of all, to be the mother of our children — you’re kind, intelligent, multitalented, driven, career oriented, family centred, the list goes on and on.

But we’re socializers, spreading ourselves across many communities, sharing our love for humanity with as many people as we can. How would we raise kids with our travel/work schedules?
 Given our separate married lives, the issue of separation and divorce could play a big role, too.

More to write but I need sleep…zzzzz…

Silence…

Silence. No thoughts. No ambition.  Wrapped in the cocoon of confirmation bias. Protected by the filtered push technology of modern life. The equivalence of happiness? Realistic utopia for someone in my demographic? Pleasantly, presently, the living dead? Irrelevant existence? No more negative thoughts lingering in the background, no more fear of depression cycling back through, embracing my mediocrity with clarity not acidity. Why didn’t I do this decades ago? No ambition. No thoughts. Silence……….

Do I want to be sexy?

So I think I can dance…

Tonight, standing under a starless sky, clouds reflecting a pinkish-purple glow of city light, I wonder what I want my independent happiness to reflect.

So I think I can dance, and, given music I can discern a rhythm through my tinnitus and hearing aids, I can dance…

Well, I can dance, even if I know few formal dance moves, but…

Do I want to be known as a sexy dancer?

Do I want to attract that kind of attention, when I’m a married man who hasn’t had an orgasm with another person in over ten years?

Doesn’t the juxtaposition of looking sexy and getting sexually aroused while dancing publicly but having a sexless private life interfere with my Happiness?

It does.

So, yes, I think I can dance but if the joy of dancing causes side effects detrimental to my mental health then I might have no choice but to isolate myself from social situations that might lead to dancing.

Just because I can dance, just because I can socialise, just because i know how to make other people feel good about themselves doesn’t mean I should.

I know it doesn’t make sense to hear myself say that having a good time and making other people feel good is actually bad for me but it’s true.

I really feel better here, writing to myself, not analysing another person’s behaviour to figure out what I can do to say nice words to that person to build a protective wall or smoke screen of “feeling good” between us so that that person can’t see my happiness is fake, that my true desire is if I’m going to remain childless then I might as well be dead and not using resources that somebody else’s child could be using to be a successful procreater.

At least I’m no longer depressed because I’ve found a way to live as if I’m already dead and just label it happiness to project a socially acceptable set of states of energy to hide within.