20030119
I ponder the nature of man and am despondent with regard to
the nature of myself. If fate be self made, then clearly only myself has been
my undoing.
After all these years, still I gasp and suffocate like a fish
out of water at the thought of greatness. My mouth opens and closes, soundless,
a futile protest against the future I have created.
If only the itch would go away. The once persistent twinge
hinting of glories glimpsed and of purpose untainted. I have learned to largely
ignore the scratching noise, to smother it in alcohol, work, and the mundane
trappings of life. Life that is not life. Life that is existence, not the true
drawing of breath with purpose.
So mediocre. Oh, I am an above average individual in many
regards but pale next to any real semblance of accomplishment. Effort is
required and effort I lack. I am an automaton, gliding through without merit
but with general ease. With no notable path, no discernable wake I trespass the
byways of life.
Perhaps I should just be normal, procreate for the sake of
immortality and hope somewhere in my genes the will and drive may again be
found. No, thank you. I am a bit too selfish, self-centered for that. If I
have not the drive to strive, why would I be accomplished raising progeny?
Facile with the language of my birth, words still have
occasion to be minced and dispersed by my hand. This, however, is most likely
yet another example of upper mediocrity come to mock every dream I have ever
had. Face life, face labor, face perceived reality and understand the place
created to hold me; created by hands so familiar, forsaking hands I dare not
part with.
Why do I give in to despair? Why does the blackness still
retain its grasp upon my innermost self? Is this yet another example of the
weakness of spirit, the lack of resolve manifest in many guises?
I stumble, I dream, I ache, I plod reluctantly, but rarely do
I itch these days. I have become accomplished after a sort, skilled in dwelling
in the fashion I never desired. Somewhat skilled but still the mask slips too
often. I persist in not completely burying my hope of transcendence. Now if
only I could unearth a willingness to work for it. I default to telling myself
there is no higher purpose worthy of the task. No purity in the world, for all
I can see is contradicting motives in a world that so mirrors my own inner
turmoil. No cause is pure, no faith appears deserving of devotion.
Awaiting perfection in a world lacking true extremes I
provide an excuse that will brook no counter arguments. Prove my case in a
world with no proof. Prove to me I should have faith in some cause. Prove to
me I can be something greater than what I am today and that the <shudder> work
will be worth my time and effort. Prove to me, show me irrefutable evidence I
can amount to something and will feel differently about the world.
There’s the catch, isn’t it? How do you make someone feel
differently about a topic, let alone the world? How do you make yourself feel
different? It takes a bit of motivation, I know because I have done it before
and at the time it seemed less ethereal than today. The effects that is. The
motivation is not ethereal, it is non-existent.
Escape is all I long for now. Remove me further from the
toil, from the strain, the stress. Remove from me the itch. No, that is not
what I want, I just want to leave the job, the friends, the belongings and
trappings of my life. The trappings, are they not one form of binding about my
limbs? Pay for this, pay for that, keep up the act long enough to pay the bank,
since the bank is far more demanding than simple escape, far more motivated at
accomplishing its set task.
Yearning for release, I find new reasons to stay. New
requests, deeds to be done, excuses to excuse cowardice. After all, it can’t
all just be some survival instinct at this point, can it? I am sticking around
because… Hmm, it would upset others, yes that must be it.
Chemicals traverse the spaces between axon and dendrite.
Receptors blocked or left in want of a balance I lack. Is the secret to
happiness to be found in philosophy or the pharmacy? My half-hearted attempts
to nurture my odd psyche have left me dissolute. Today’s comprehension of the
nature of chemical correction leaves me with apprehension, or is that just the
cowardice speaking once more?
My act of being content is lacking in content these days and
I have no answers to fend off the questions I pepper myself with. I have
slacked the upkeep of appearances and find I can only hide part of the time now.
I have no solutions, no drive, no burgeoning hope, only the
nagging numbness that has replaced a vague itch. Reading the words from ten
years ago, is this simply the result of my choice? Having found temporal
success do I spit at myself because I did not attain my dreams of never-never
land? Am I just sulking or is there some physical reality to the malady
pursuing me?
I am so tired of being chased. This shadow has been sewn
upon my heel for twenty years now. I have dragged it across the globe and
through many a mental portal, occasionally losing sight of it in the sunlight,
but never for long enough.
Please tell me this is just some lack of certain molecular
chains within my brain. Tell me this has some solution requiring only the
meager reminder of maintaining medication. I think I could probably deal with
that, accept there is some hidden genetic defect to blame and cure. Not my
parents fault, just some tweaked chromosome, damaged by galactic radiation or a
lack of sunlight.
If the medication were successful, I think it might
eventually even help some of this dreariness inside to fade in importance. Not
to be forgotten, but to take backstage to the actual process of living life and
maybe enjoying it more than I do now. Maybe the hollow feeling, the question of
whether I should feel the fool for having such an itch so long ago will finally
go away, slipping from my memory like that of a retarded child who cannot recall
after a brief span the brilliant and shiny object no longer placed before him.
Is that what I really want? I am not certain, but if I were
to truly forget, then the question becomes quite moot, or should that be mute?
I seek a solution to my lack of drive and my lackadaisical
approach to life in general and happiness in particular. I want to find either
the magical key to unlocking my questions or just the ambition and purpose to
feel reward in living. But don’t make me work for it, I really hate working.
[© 2003 Joseph Wheeler,
all rights reserved]