All this talk of death and dying, of suicide by the age of 35, of letting things go and not forming attachments…I think what these all boil down to is how greatly dissatisfied I am with life. There are moments when I am filled with such an overwhelming fear that if I stay too long in between the empty transitions of one task and another, my tears will catch up with me and I’d end up howling for my pathetic state, for the sadness that threatens to choke me, consumes me, steals from me any lasting happiness. The sadness, the discontent, the disenchantment, the helplessness, the seeming pointlessness of everything and all endeavors in the universe have become deadweight that I carry around with me wherever I go.
I have said it often enough after all, reality falls short. It always does. I wish I didn’t have such utopian conceptions of the world. It pains me to see that growing up often means letting go of idealism, of learning to swallow and forgive the things you once thought were unforgivable. And perhaps what I can’t accept the most is how I can survive living this compromise. Why can’t I just die pure? Living like this, growing up like this and coming into society, I am revolted at how I can stand being soiled.
