Should I even keep blogging?

That is not a whine for affirmation.  It is a simple question.

I don't snap back well after rejection or disappointment.  Today, I have been inundated by those factors from multiple flanks.  The experience always sends me into spiritual and psychological territories from which I have no road map of return.  An exaggeration perhaps.  I have always found my way back to a sense of "normal," but it isn't without effort.  Almost as if my GPS beacon back to "home" is jammed by purposeful interference from a foreign but camouflaged power.

Once returned to the land of "normal," I do my usual routine to distract myself from past failures.  I treat myself to a latte...pretty much all a loser like me in a capitalistic system can afford...I go through libraries and bookstores to be among the books, I write, or I just stare at the walls.  Those are the times that I call "the big lie." Just denying the truth, just shunting the reality of my existence a little bit further into the pink so I can pretend things are just fine.  But we can't be busy all of the time. You can't dodge self examination, unless you're completely empty-headed (and if you are, that's not an insult...I truly envy you.)  That is when the awful thoughts come, those intense desires to see it all just go away.

Routines, even things I like become tedious rituals.  Conversation requires a herculean effort.  It's not that I don't like you, it's that I don't think you're currently saying anything that's worth a shit.  The "normal" and often misogynistic and racist world disgusts me. 

I am reclusive by nature, but I see this intensifying.  Doing things invites rejection.  Interacting with people brings more problems.  The vapid, the money-minded, the lazy fuckheads, all of them milling and cavorting about in this joke we call "civilization," myself reflected in their mirrorshades only showing me that I don't want to be me.  Every endeavor merely a set-up for another disaster.

People who knew me in college will see this as nothing new.  My depression, my despondency in the face of gruesome reality and my empty rage at a situation I can seemingly do nothing about...well, it's all old hat to them.  I try to pretend that I was really someone else back then, to dissuade anyone from the accurate assessment that I had it right all along.

Back to the blog question.  Where the hell is it getting me?  For that matter, where the hell is anything getting me?  Maybe I'm just saying this because I've been preparing a lecture on existentialism and the meaninglessness of life is an adamant part of such a lesson...but it is difficult for me to find a point in anything. 

Nothing has gone right for me in seven years.  Seven years.  You read that right.  I see very little reason to have any form of enthusiasm about my future.  It will be tepid at best.  A constant maintenance of status quo, never achieving anything above and beyond that point.  I am 43 years old and I have never held a job that pays a fully sustainable wage.  That is the greatest shame an American can carry.  I do not shirk my responsibility in this matter.  In fact I take full responsibility.  It's just another testament to my failure, my inadequacy, and my shame. 

Everything I try fails.  Professionally, interpersonally, artistically...quote the Lord: "better that he never had been born at all."

I find myself longing for crazy things, like the simplicity of a Sierra game on a primitive PC monitor, believing it to be the zenith of technology.  Looking for meaning in things and I just can't find it.

I wish I could mutate like Kafka.  He did not entertain suicide and neither do I.  He wanted to disappear.  Through "metamorphosis" he wanted to become so small as to be insignificant.  Therefore, all his cares, emotions, and failures would insignificant as well.  What could I mutate into?  I'd settle for anything.  Anything other than human.

I would pay you.  I would pay whatever it took for you to wrest this gnawing blackness from my mind and soul.  Medications obviously won't do it.  There are no achievements of any merit on the horizon for me, so that must be discounted as well.

So I drift here in the black, sitting alone in my space station as it orbits, knowing that it was self-imposed exile all along.  The systems panel warns of a breach in hull integrity.  It means nothing to me now, just like so much else. Why write?  I have nothing to say.  Nothing of value, anyway.  Especially not in a world that finds reading such an arduous task.  Someone who shatters so easily was never meant to survive, let alone thrive, right?  Darwin would say no. 

Life is a nightmare.  And it will end.  The only question is when.  The black, the empty, the void, it can be comforting.  Let me fall into it.  Why write anymore?

If this is my last blog post, then thanks for reading.  Hope the experience wasn't too awful.  Hope you didn't waste too much of your time.

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