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| Painting by Clive Barker |
Happiness consists of getting enough sleep. Just that, nothing more.
— Robert Heinlein (Starship Troopers)
Why is it so easy to open up a gateway to the void inside? One minute you’re calm and full of sunshine and so fucking on top of things, the next you can’t recall a single plausible reason for wanting to stay alive at all. Is it the time to write depressive poetry about the pain of existence, or just for having dinner and then a full night’s sleep? I don’t know, but every time I feel fine I manage to convince myself that all those years of inner turmoil and angst and death wish are finally behind me. Every fucking time. Then sooner rather than later reality slaps me in the face, in the form of some ridiculous little detail that breaks my routine or whatever, and there we go again.
I don’t know why I’m even writing this. Much of the time I feel fine. Or at least okay. Convinced that things are going to be genuinely fine some time in the not too distant future. Most of all I feel tired, I guess. Is that resignation? No, resignation would be accepting this as the new default state. Which I guess is what I have done, and maybe that’s what I actually need. I’ve cut down on so many things. Friends, mostly. I have a whole list of friends I want to contact, but there’s just not enough of me to go around. Especially relationships where I constantly have to be the one taking initiatives, I don’t have the energy any more. I already knew most of my friends are depressed and thus unable of upholding social relations on their own. As sad as that is, I just can’t deal with that now. They’ll have to find others to cling to.
I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning. Now I’m gonna go to bed before I spiral even deeper into doubt and self-pity. Maybe next time poetry has returned to me, but now I can hardly even remember what inspiration tastes like.
Love and whine,
Winterdragon
