I didn’t want to write this

But catharsis demanded it.

My original plan was to write something positive today, namely a review of a book. That will have to wait until next week, as my heart, what remains of it, is not in it.

It’s been six months since the most emotionally traumatic event in my life.

Half a year is supposed to make it better.

You’re supposed to move on, to simply deal with it.

I extend a middle finger in the direction of those platitudes.

Heartbreak is difficult enough to deal with for anyone. It’s worse for introverts, it’s worse for people like me who don’t fit neatly in all of your boxes, your glass houses, your insincere veneer of small talk and “everything’s going to be okay,” your world of boorish arrogance. It’s worse for a man like me who actually does want to pursue something meaningful and romantic with a woman, but other men have fucked it all up. Other men have ruined things with their games, their failed integrity, their obvious ploys all for the sake of sexual conquest.

I’ve been through all of the stages of grief. Now what I’m left with is a pool of self-pity that I try to drain but something keeps filling it. I’m left with anger and resentment at the world that seems determined to keep its boot pressed against the back of my neck. I’m left with 40 or more hours a week of lying to myself and lying to others, about who I really am and what I really care about, or pretending to be happy and pretending to give a shit about the things other people do. All I have left with any meaning, any depth, any substance, is my writing and the people who share in that creative process. Only when I am engaged in putting words on a page or bring music to the ears am I able to feel like I am a real person, that life makes sense, that I have more to look forward to than disappointment and shattering disillusionment.

This post is charged with bitterness and negativity, I realize that. There may come a day, I hope, when I look back on a post such as this and realize that there was a different, new kind of dawn waiting for me, to disperse the omni-present darkness. But until then, I will fight, I will struggle, until who I really am, not the name my parents gave me, not my job title, not the lies I am forced to endure, but my true identity as an individual human is all I am known for.

I thought I had that once, that at least one person here saw through the layers of bullshit we’re all forced to wear proudly, I thought at one time that no matter how bleak things looked or how much the world wore me down, there was one person who saw through to the real me, and I to her. Maybe what we had meant more to me than it did to her. Maybe she really is an immature bitch. Maybe it was the right person but at the wrong time. That doesn’t matter now. It’s all over, and if I ever get to talk to her again it will be the most unlikely cosmic event I’ve ever fathomed. What mattered was that she was my morbid little angel, my doll, the cornerstone of a time in my life that my existence made sense.

Now I fight, I write, I survive, to find a new purpose. I look around me… I see people who have smiles on their faces even when their bodies have failed, I see children fighting back against disease or birth defects who have more strength of will in their tiny bodies than most adults I know, I see animals who have been tortured and maimed by humans and yet in their supposedly limited hearts and minds they represent forgiveness and love. I may deal with depression, occasional anemia and frequent migraines, but I do have all of my limbs, can see well and all of my organs are working (that I know of). I was born a healthy baby. I tell myself that if those less fortunate than me can be happy, why can’t I? Do they know something I don’t? Are they blissfully ignorant of the world? Am I just a sour cuss?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. All I can tell you is that I am an unhappy person, whose only escape from it is through creativity. The only sense of fulfillment, eudaimonia, I have is when I am creating or exploring. Everything else, if I may quote Spock, “is a waste of material.”

Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe there are a lot of other people in the same predicament, stuck in spending most of their lives and energies in pursuits they don’t care about in order to make money, or to provide for their families. Maybe some do it out of a sense of altruism, that their jobs are necessary in order to help others or provide an essential service. Whatever the case, I tire of the game, I tire of a rigged system that is dedicated to the pursuit of money and power, of an insipid human societal machine that insists on spinning its wheels in place when the ideas and technology exist to free us from the shackles of limited energy and money.

Whatever. I’m one voice speaking out against a storm, with both middle fingers extended out. I’ll keep fighting, keep writing, until I’m dead. Then we’ll find out if this afterlife talk has some merit or if it’s all rubbish. I hope anyone who reads this has either already found themselves and their fulfillment, or does so someday soon. When you do, never let it go.

FIN

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