Feeling tired. Feeling bored. Feeling lonely. Only distraction is the story line I endlessly rehash in my mind. Out of cigarettes, nothing to eat.
The story is the only thing I’ve got. Where I can imagine and derive satisfaction from what I perceive to be real relationships – where people reach out to each other, form connections, and don’t keep each other at arm’s length despite their own issues.
Fantasy is where I encounter satisfactory human beings. Maybe that’s why it’s fantasy. No one is like they are in stories. Love, acceptance, connection, equality in a relationship, none of those are real, at least for me. I don’t know what they feel like. So I make up stories where they happen. Because I need to believe humans are worthwhile.
The one story variant I keep returning to is one of a character’s slow downward spiral. Everyone sees what’s happening. Everyone close to him knows the unspeakably awful things that have happened to him. But they keep him at arm’s length until he hits rock bottom. Eventually, the one he loves finally reaches out and saves him with loving him. Pretty transparent, isn’t it? I know what it says about me.
But it keeps a tiny flickering foolish flame of hope alive that someone might do that for me. Save me from myself, to show me the way, finally. But I know. No one will save me, no one is obligated to so. I know it in my heart. It doesn’t really happen. But the stupid hope burns, since otherwise there is only despair.
It’s the way of the world, isn’t it? If you can’t save yourself, you’re doomed. Don’t count on anyone to save you. (I understand why religion is appealing sometimes.) Only if you dare to voice this thought, others act shocked and appalled, like it’s not so. I have come close to saying this out loud to others, but not out-right, and have gotten that reaction. Even in my daily life I try to outwardly pretend humanity isn’t as uncaring as it is, much like most everyone else does. No one dares to voice what is commonly known deep down, and if someone does people will defend their own layer of delusion because it means they might have to edge closer to cold reality. Well, come and join me. It’s freezing here.
You can’t admit openly what a cold, hard place the world is. Especially to those who have a nice warm insulating layer of delusion built up by loving and supportive people in their lives. To me there’s two ways to be happy in this world. Either be lucky and have that warm buffer, or come to it by sheer, abject acceptance of the state of things. I’ve been trying for the latter, but it’s harder than you’d ever know. I still have the trappings of ego, mainly anger and the maddening concept of fairness. I wish I could unlearn “fairness.” It’s like I’m still a child, in this aspect. It makes it hard to simply accept, when part of me still wants the world to be different.
Twenty years from now, thirty, forty, I may still be in internal conflict. But I hope like hell not. I hope I will come to acceptance and thrive at last. I don’t want my life to be a drawn-out, muffled cry of despair. Knowing how many if not all people suffer silently their entire lives, each a tiny speck in a vast sea of specks, this seems rather naive and unlikely. Yet I have always hoped for better for myself. My ego will not allow any less and that’s half of why I suffer.