What am I doing here? Am I supposed to be here? Am I living, or just pushing myself through little 24-hour pieces of existence, stringing them in a chain and calling it seventeen years of life? Where are my hopes, my dreams, my happiness? Do I even know what I want from life? Yes, maybe I do, but they are so inexpressible, thanks to the system I’m bound in, that I might as well forget about fulfilling any of my dreams. And hey, that’s what I’ve been doing, really. I’ve been suppressing my true desires for so long that I can’t find them any more when I ask my heart what they are. Worse, my heart doesn’t talk any more. I can’t remember the last time I felt I had one, and knew that I was free and living, and that my life was of purpose.
Tell me what I have today. I don’t have a happy family, I don’t have a single true friend, I don’t have a single true passion left to put my whole life behind. Once again, I know I don’t have the point of living to see the sun rise tomorrow, yet I won’t admit it. I say things to myself like, I’m living for hope. If things could turn out to give you a girl like her, they will turn out to make things better again. And I guess beneath all my love for miracles and Providence there’s a little isolated cell of logic that knows that sort of stuff don’t exist. Things never want to happen or anything. Things never turn up for anyone. It’s stupid to think of the universe and its inanimate happenings as a kind and considerate guardian. If it really were so, I wouldn’t be here today. I’ll tell you what, I’ll tell you what all this fate crap is about. When things go right, I explain it by saying that it’s Providence. When things go wrong, God is testing me, and ‘life’s not easy, because it wants you to live.’ Instead of this pathetic attempt of pasting a kind, watchful face on to the happenings of life, isn’t it better and much simpler to treat them as functions of probability? But no I won’t do that, shall I? I need a religion.
Einstein once said that there are two things that are infinite: the universe and human stupidity. He was wrong about the first one.
I wish I could be brave and wise enough to be able to laugh to death about myself right now. I’m looking so pretty cuddled up here in misery, moaning about life, feeling sorry for myself, that it starts tickiling the inner walls of my stomach when I start thinking about it. Hey man, if I can’t get this myself to anywhere worthy, why not have a good laugh out of it?
And that last sentence was self-pity again. The circle comes around and touches, the paradox completes. You will never know who is higher: the me who muses, or the me who has a good laugh out of it.
And it is this paradox that is life. I hope to write more about it someday. Don’t worry, I guess I’ll still be sticking around.