Most working days now the thought that crosses my mind every couple of seconds, on average, is Just give up. The work is terrible, undoable. I cannot imagine ever finishing it. A monkey could perhaps work faster than I can now, the monkey probably being in a healthier mental state than I am. Screw intelligence, screw training, screw humanity; if you're crazy, a monkey is probably better than you.
As I try to get my work done, and fail, I feel inferior to monkeys, to birds, to hippos, to otters, to every goddamn creature known to man. I wish I were an otter. A simple life. I'd like to build dams all around, until they are so high no one will ever find me. But I'm a lousy human, with millions of thoughts and emotions vying for attention, and I fail at my work, at everything, and I just sit down against the radiator in cursed winter, and write some bullshit no one reads, thinking: if only this warmth against my back could be with me forever, it might give me the strength to make it.
Oh, who am I kidding. I will never make it. I might last the month, and reach 2013, something I would never even have thought possible some time ago. I might even last for a little while after that. 2014 seems a couple of lifetimes away though. It probably wouldn't if I didn't have to work another day ever again. But when I sit back down at the computer and open the stupid, purposeless document I'm working on, and the pressure that instantly hits me once again chokes me up and makes me want to smash everything in sight, I know I won't last long. Most likely I will lose my most promising clients and fail to pay the rent before long, unless some miracle occurs, and finally I will again find the courage to try and end it all.
It is simultaneously an alluring thought and an incredibly distressing one. It reflects the constant, constant, constant conflict between life and death in me. I have no idea which to choose; I'm afraid to choose. Life and death: both my friends and enemies. Do I opt for nearly constant suffering with good moments in between, or do I choose the most final option of all, which excludes every good moment I could ever have, and entails lots of fear and pain all gathered together in an instant, producing a short-term living hell, but a long-term heavenly reward of nothingness as well, making all that suffering and loss worth it.
Is it human to want the best of both worlds? We are infinitely greedy, even when not damaging others with our greed. There is this sense of entitlement to good things somehow inside of me, perhaps inside all of us in this disgustingly rich world. Is it our wealth- and happiness-focused society that created it, or has it always been there? Take a look at poorer countries and question this last thought. We are not entitled to anything; would it not be best to think this all the time, and let every stroke of fortune pleasantly surprise us? Yet I can’t. What am I even doing complaining when lots of people don’t even have any food? Yet one’s own tragedy feels like the greatest in the world, and it is painfully present no matter how we remind ourselves others are worse off. It is painfully present no matter what you do, when it has already made itself into part of your life and your being.
I suffer. It is how it is. The reasons why aren’t even important in any way. Life has only the value humans place upon it, and I place none upon mine. Is it up to anyone else to tell me the value of my life? My life is the only thing that is mine, and mine alone, and I will decide for myself whether to keep it, or give it up. But should I give it up? Perhaps. I don’t think the world would be worse off without me. In the great scope of things, I think my life matters as much as everything else: nothing at all.
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