Long time no me, but I’m back and as one might infer from the title, more unhappy than ever – or close to it. It’s ironic – well, not truly in accord with the definition of irony, but more-so based on the colloquial connotation now possessed by the widely misused term – that I should have spiraled into despair having previously posted on how to endure and overcome such misfortune. I’ve decided to return here, to this empty space devoid of any judgement but my own, so as to document my experience and reflect upon it in the hope that it is somehow cathartic while also enlightening. Here it goes – and don’t dare interrupt with a snide “…and how does that make you feel?”, because the answer will inevitably be clear in the text and likely sad.
Well, right now I just feel overwhelmed, like I have every time prior, but worse in some indescribable way. I feel like life is escaping me, seeping away like sand between my fingers, treacherously fleeing in the favour of gravity and the certainty it offers. Choices that should be mine to make seem to ignore my opinion, and the ones which remain within my reach weigh too heavily, crushing me with the burden of eventual outcome and consequence. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, but either way the devil has my soul. My life trickles away and I feel every instant, every moment as it floats from the future to the past, and I am acutely aware that I’m losing far more than I’m gaining in every exchange. There is no solace to be attained, no joy to be derived. Everything I envisage seems doomed before it is established, every effort reduced to redundancy as I march toward the stygian darkness, drawn by the relentless crooning of Mistress Death and the mischievous Master Time. Are my experiences in fantasy writing beginning to shine through? My analogies are taking a peculiar turn with distinct influence.
I’ve always had to endure this constant conflict, this battle in my mind between the pointlessness of it all and the importance that I not let it be so, and right now one side is fighting far harder than the other. I’m still so young and yet I feel like my life is set in stone, already scripted by the almighty hand of destiny. I have completed my first novel, and despite my efforts to contact lit. agents, my submissions were all but ignored (save for one response, which was, of course, a rejection) – I have a suspicion that my e-mails may have been perceived as spam, because all those I submitted to had stated that they would respond within a certain time period even if to reject, but meh. I’m still writing, partially through a sequel and already half-way through a different novel, but I’m finding it harder than ever to motivate myself when it seems fruitless. So much effort for nothing – does that statement encompass life in general or is that just my dour perception? I had been planning on starting a new degree, but now I’m debating whether that is worth the effort. This sorrow has not only soured me, but drained me completely of my meaning, ruined me with my own torturous thoughts. It’s crushing, this weight I’ve created for myself, and I’d love to set it all down, cast it aside and say “F*** it! F*** it all!” but I can’t, because then that truly would be resigning to my doomed fate. It would mean accepting that I’ll never be anything more than I am now as I sit at home, slapping these keys with my head thumping and buzzing with bitter thoughts, completely mediocre and average, unimportant for now and for ever. In the face of adversity we must persevere – but do I continue doing so when it seems to no avail?
Life is losing its flavour for me, joy turning sour and the glorious colour of it all fading to the harsh tones of grey which seem to carpet the wintry skies. All I see around me is the pain and suffering of the people I love, the needless sufferance of people who are living just to survive, and surviving in the hope that there will come a time when they might live. It hurts. Its unbearable. I want to give up, but I know I won’t. It’s not in men to succumb to the self-pity, to seek an exit rather than to continue along the path, regardless of the struggle. So is that my answer? Just keep struggling? Hardly an answer when the question I’m asking is “why should I?”
“Sometimes we ask questions not to learn the answer, but to pretend we didn’t already know it.” Book I’m writing (copyright me)- not gonna give out a name seeing as their seems no point in self-promoting in this vacuous room of nothingness. Also, on that note, why is life so prickly when it lacks a point?