Read Me Freaking Myself Out To The Point Of Being Nearly Incomprehensible

by Noise Pollution

Life has been so nice to me lately, but I haven’t been nice to life. I continue to say that life sucks, and should just leave me alone for a few minutes. No, I’m not suicidal right now, but I do kind of hate being awake. Because, well, life.

I should be able to accomplish all of the things that I need to accomplish. I have no pressure right now. None. I have no excuses to procrastinate anything any further, and yet I do. It makes me feel so pathetic, and so worthless. The fact that I could be doing something and I should be doing something makes not doing it that much more shameful. Why don’t I get out more? Why don’t I exercise? Why don’t I fill out another shitty online job application that a robot throws away before a human even sees it? There’s all the things that I am perfectly capable of doing, but I don’t do. And it’s so frustrating, because no matter how hard I try, no… scratch that. No matter how bad I want something, I can’t try.

I’ve been playing my guitar more, though. I don’t know if its actually helping or just contributing to my current state of down-ness. I mean, I only write unhappy music. Even my love songs aren’t actually happy. Hell, my last post was an unhappy love song. “I whisper that I love you / through glass”. I guess no one actually realizes how profound that line is to me personally, since they haven’t lived my life, but suffice to say, it’s not happy.

I don’t know what that word even means. “Happy” is such a strange, nebulous term. It’s barely comprehensible; it might even be an entirely arbitrary concept created by men to give us something to strive for. Happiness might be nothing more than a carrot on a stick. I fucking hate carrots. Including that metaphorical one.

That said, yesterday and the day before, I was feeling better. I was feeling… almost like I used to. Almost the way I felt when I actually did things. And I realized that this whole “happy” thing isn’t what I thought it was at all. It’s not the complete constant bliss that I was hoping for. It’s something just enough past complacency to not feel like you need anything more than that. It’s just a little better than contentment. I fucking hate contentment. And it keeps me from feeling good for very long.

Right now, I’m still searching for something a little deeper than happiness, and happiness is going to have to pass me by. I need something more than that in my life to feel satisfied. But isn’t satisfaction just contentment? If I’m ever satisfied, won’t I just hate that and try to find something else? Ahhggg. Fuck. I don’t know. Maybe this want for something deeper is just the part of being human that drives forward. Maybe our search for something more substantial is the actual carrot on a stick. Maybe I should give up, maybe it’s a wild goose chase, maybe it’s all meaningless and so is being alive.

Or maybe one day, I’ll be happy. Who knows?

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