Why I don't use this thing on a habitual basis is beyond me! The only thing I can figure is that I get so caught up in new things all the time that all the activities I normally enjoy tend to slowly dissipate. Writing music is an activity I haven't done in awhile. Even just playing the guitar or keyboard is something I only rediscovered recently, and only briefly. It's pretty bizarre, since I do somewhat consider myself a musician.
Desires? I'm confused about them. In my daydreams I imagine what it would be like to finally have a million dollars and never have to work my day job again. Yes, the freedom would feel pretty good, but honestly what would I do with myself? If I ever have a day off from work I first feel excited at the idea of doing whatever I feel like, whether it's playing games, reading, watching television, napping, writing, going for a walk, or a million other activities that I don't normally get to partake in. The truth is, however, that at the end of the day I only feel disappointed.
Why disappointed?
Perhaps I expect way too much from myself, from life. I never feel satisfied with my decisions, always feeling as if I could have better ones. Regrets. The time always feels wasted. Then when I get creative, part of me feels a sense of hopelessness, as if what I'm creating brings no purpose in my life. Is it all just an endless pursuit of entertainment, expression, and togetherness? And even then, what's so bad about that?
Lower animal forms seem generally content. My cats used to always lounge around, enjoying my attention. That, and wet food. Nothing better than a life that consists of a succession of naps and feedings. From my studies on Buddhism, I've learned that real happiness comes from simply being in the present moment. If I worry about what I'm going to do next, I'll suffer. If I dwell about my past, I'll suffer. I know this to be the truth, and yet I keep straying from these practices.
To be honest, I haven't meditated nor exercised in a good number of months. Along with writing, I've always found myself looking forward to these activities. (Perhaps I've hesitated a bunch when I'm just about to enter work out sessions, though I know I always feel better afterwards.) Meditation sessions are hit or miss. Sometimes I'm able to sustain awareness for short bursts or a short period of time, though more often I find myself analyzing my thoughts, imagining the future, and hating the past. Even now my mind is elsewhere, always searching.
What was the name of that guy in that
film, and where did I see him before that? Whose he married to? What has she done? Controversy? What controversy? Where did this urban legend get started? A picture gallery of an abandoned factory? *click* *click* *click* *click*
I've always known this compulsion was there. I see it in my son. I see it in my friends. I see it in myself. It's as if there's a black hole in me that'll never be satisfied, yet believes just one more piece of trivial information is all that it'll require. More books! More music! More games! More movies! More! More! More!
My environment and my belief structure seems to be at play here. I'm constantly reminded of the joys that others feel. Immediately I compare and contrast their lives to mine and always conclude that I drew the short straw. My life is filled with boundaries. Can I simply just run off and do an activity? Absolutely not! My life is embedded in a complex matrix of political bureaucracy. There's a very specific structure to my days, in which I struggle to down play the boring and less desirable aspects of.
I'm wasting my time soliciting some sort of praise and gratitude from the world, especially via Facebook. Say something that people like and comment on, and then feel slightly more validated in one's existence. I'm a comedian, and the internet is my stage. I live and breathe on the laughs and appreciation from others, especially strangers. The drug costs no monetary value, only time and effort. (although it's said that time IS money...)
It's all set up to be a constant needing and irritation at the inevitable. "Sure, I still have this mortgage." "Sure, I still have these car payments." "Sure, I'm still not making enough money outside of my dayjob." "Sure, I'm not permitted to pursue other endeavorers." These are all facts of life, and yet I torture myself with them, torture myself with the idea that "You know, it shouldn't be like this, and you're suffering until reality has disappeared."
I despise the t
erm "artist" because it feels so pretentious and counterfeit. Who the fuck doesn't desire to be expressive and creative? I've yet to meet anyone intelligent that can simply be happy with mundane processes. Admittedly this comes from undying cynicism, the double-edged sword that I'm always inflicting new wounds on myself from. Quietly I'm a hardcore, self-aware Contrarian who is always disappointed when anything personal to me becomes mainstream. I know I'm wrong! It's ridiculous, and yet I can't help feeling this way. My mind organizes and categorizes everything, reducing it all down to the lowest common denominator and transforms ideas, people and places into simple numbers. Not in a sociopath-sense, just a quantifiable measurement of the perceived reality around me.
Driven for some sort of cosmic justice, I get snarky about all events. I sit on the very back of that auditorium, that bus, where I can see the backs of the heads of everyone except myself. I'm no longer vulnerable to attack. I'm a ghost. I'm not a player in society's constant competitive game, but merely a spectator that doesn't suffer from any results. Participation would force me to defend myself, and there's nothing more I hate than having to do so.
