For most of my the life, the burdens of conscience and consciousness have proven heavy and
difficult to bear. The experience of unrelenting thoughts spinning through the pathways of my
mind becomes uncomfortable after a short period of time; prompting me to distraction and the
dulling of my senses. Whether sleep, reading, television or various forms of chemical intoxication;
I have sought a release from what seemed painful and pointless- obsessing over the minuscule
movements of my thoughts. Like most other purges, however, I now find the results worse than
the condition I hoped to cure.
The inability to organize my thoughts with clarity and concision; a task I once found easy enough,
has become increasing difficult and vexing. My line of work rarely asks for complex verbal or
written logical formations, instead demanding my attention be fixed on small and seeming trivial
tasks; but that could prove cause for dismissal if incorrectly executed. Plenty of stress; little deep
thought or intense reflection- this has proven a formula for mental degradation, and dullness.
When my chief form of recreation has become inebriation; I know this pattern of life can't be sustained, and I find myself increasing agitated at the prospect of an empty skulled existence;
battered about by my bouts of poison consumption. Physical habits become entrenched, the slow downward slope of decay stretches before me; the future looks to be a dim and dank path I blindly
follow without destination or hope of rescue.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
"I wouldn't give a damn if you ever displayed the slightest sign of gratitude. The only thanks is to have you sneer at me for a dirty miser, sneer at my profession, sneer at every damned thing in the world--except yourself."
"That's not true, Papa. You can't hear me talking to myself, that's all."
Long Day's Journey Into Night- Eugene O'Neill
Training begins early. With the incessant hawk and hounding of advertising, even the youngest child learns the bitter taste of unrelenting want. The purported lack of goods, feelings, and acceptable facades leads to an inescapable conclusion: inadequacy. Without the mandatory perfection required to lead an acceptable existence; the individual assimilates failure as a fixed point of daily reference, and becomes tainted with the first dregs of self contempt. Forced to view the inability to conform to some unobtainable standards as a moral degeneracy; the loathing of one's essence is inextricably bound to the perception of the human condition.
Thus, rather than face the crushing burden of such degradation alone, there arises an insatiable longing to view others under the same ghastly illumination of debasement and despair. It remains far easier to drag others down into the mire than to try and raise one's self up; far less of an effort to inflict pain than to sow joy or inspire hope. Thus arises the vicious circle of mutally assured destruction; a round robin of spirt rending where no one wins anything but loss.
"He who despises himself nevertheless esteems himself as a self-despiser."