(no subject)
I haven't been sleeping very well, lately. Don't know why, but I can't chalk it up to my imagination anymore. Summer is winding down, which is pretty much the worst feeling ever, and the temperature is technically still hot, though an emasculated heat, like the only part of it that remains is the annoying part. Regardless how I appreciate the heat more than the cold of winter. ..So much more...
Regardless, the heat isn't why I'm losing sleep. It doesn't seem like any particular reason. But this muddled consciousness is only yielding some pretty unhealthy thinking. While it's old hat for me, it's the sort of bad thinking that makes me lose sleep. Kind of a catch-22. Or maybe the opposite..? How about chicken and the egg? Übermensch envy? Nietzsche's still trendy, right?
I suppose it all stems from being generally bored and unfulfilled. These days, I am doing nothing I am not required to. I'm just going through the motions. No games do more than distract me, and it is the sort of distraction that only frustrates you more once you snap out of it. Like a gorilla with a paddleball. You know, all the times you've seen that before.
I've read a few books, but nothing seems new. Even the humor I laugh at seems like I'm laughing at a joke I've been told before. The philosophy, I've read before. Even this jadedness, I've jaded before. I'm actually tired of being tired OF being tired. ...I bet it'd be true even if I added a few more tireds.
I know I can still find interest in things. Even I've blown a lot of hot air to others about giving things a chance; that the seemingly boring wastes of time might end up being fulfilling, if not now then later.
I hate to consider that I have trained myself to reflexively think myself into a wall. It almost seems unfair to be able to call something so far ahead of time, yet still fall victim to it. That makes me a tool, a tool box, the whole shed. I even know how to avoid it, consciously. Yet the subconscious seems to run with it. ...See? Even there, the answer speaks itself. Ignore the subconscious guidance, as it is merely folly, an illusion of better instinct. Yet it does no good. Just saying to, or even making the effort seems to do nothing. It's like knowing Rumpelstiltskin's name, yet instead of him ripping himself in half, he sticks a flute in your ass and says he'll be back later.
Watching and reading all sorts of things about people conquering their fears, getting the girl, making choices, learning lessons... they all seem like a bad joke. Like a colorful contrast to my life-on-pause. And it makes me sick.
All of this whining was set forth by yet another example.
The things I still enjoy boil down to two things. Really good, emotional, powerful music, and bittersweet little stories, usually from Japan, in one form or another.
I realize how corny it is, moving on.
When my enjoyment of these flights of escapism gets too carried away with itself, I get snapped back to reality all at once, randomly and unavoidably (I seem to be pretty attentive), and the contrast of my (To put it melodramatically) stark reality makes me nauseous. It may sound like melodrama, but I literally get nauseous. I've talked about it before, somewhere in some other puddle of narcissism as I remember. Like my body thinks there's literally, physically and actively something wrong with me -- that I am so far misplaced from a normal human being, that it needs to purge some unknown poison.
It all plays through the same way... I'll rebound into a feeling of sickness, and feel an urge to escape (Escape the escapism?). A real urgency. I'll usually go for a drive, or crawl onto my roof to stare at the sky (Doesn't seem to do it for me anymore). During my escape from reality (Actual escape, this time), I'll get bouts of a total lack of energy. Like I can't, but don't even want to run, walk, or even stand. I'll have to sit down. But it's not like I'm suicidal; if I'm driving, I still drive normally, which is a relief. But my eyes are always somewhere far away. It doesn't seem too dangerous, but I suppose it probably is.
And eventually, I'll just.. stop. I won't feel better, I won't make a task of cheering up, I won't feel vindicated... just like I pick up the pieces I can find on the ground, and go home.
I don't want help. Even if I DID have healthcare that would cover it, I wouldn't want to medicate myself. Half the reason I'm IN this boat seems like I know it wouldn't do any good. Psychiatrists have been telling me nothing profound since I was half my age. Spouting tired after-school special lessons.
With a lot of the pretenses I take, it can sound like I'm just in denial. It would be arrogant to say it simply isn't true. I WISH I was just deluding myself. I'm not THAT cynical, I've looked for solutions, ways out. I've looked hard. Like I was trapped underground.
All of this is ugly. I suppose it's just as well I stopped here.
Regardless, the heat isn't why I'm losing sleep. It doesn't seem like any particular reason. But this muddled consciousness is only yielding some pretty unhealthy thinking. While it's old hat for me, it's the sort of bad thinking that makes me lose sleep. Kind of a catch-22. Or maybe the opposite..? How about chicken and the egg? Übermensch envy? Nietzsche's still trendy, right?
I suppose it all stems from being generally bored and unfulfilled. These days, I am doing nothing I am not required to. I'm just going through the motions. No games do more than distract me, and it is the sort of distraction that only frustrates you more once you snap out of it. Like a gorilla with a paddleball. You know, all the times you've seen that before.
I've read a few books, but nothing seems new. Even the humor I laugh at seems like I'm laughing at a joke I've been told before. The philosophy, I've read before. Even this jadedness, I've jaded before. I'm actually tired of being tired OF being tired. ...I bet it'd be true even if I added a few more tireds.
I know I can still find interest in things. Even I've blown a lot of hot air to others about giving things a chance; that the seemingly boring wastes of time might end up being fulfilling, if not now then later.
I hate to consider that I have trained myself to reflexively think myself into a wall. It almost seems unfair to be able to call something so far ahead of time, yet still fall victim to it. That makes me a tool, a tool box, the whole shed. I even know how to avoid it, consciously. Yet the subconscious seems to run with it. ...See? Even there, the answer speaks itself. Ignore the subconscious guidance, as it is merely folly, an illusion of better instinct. Yet it does no good. Just saying to, or even making the effort seems to do nothing. It's like knowing Rumpelstiltskin's name, yet instead of him ripping himself in half, he sticks a flute in your ass and says he'll be back later.
Watching and reading all sorts of things about people conquering their fears, getting the girl, making choices, learning lessons... they all seem like a bad joke. Like a colorful contrast to my life-on-pause. And it makes me sick.
All of this whining was set forth by yet another example.
The things I still enjoy boil down to two things. Really good, emotional, powerful music, and bittersweet little stories, usually from Japan, in one form or another.
I realize how corny it is, moving on.
When my enjoyment of these flights of escapism gets too carried away with itself, I get snapped back to reality all at once, randomly and unavoidably (I seem to be pretty attentive), and the contrast of my (To put it melodramatically) stark reality makes me nauseous. It may sound like melodrama, but I literally get nauseous. I've talked about it before, somewhere in some other puddle of narcissism as I remember. Like my body thinks there's literally, physically and actively something wrong with me -- that I am so far misplaced from a normal human being, that it needs to purge some unknown poison.
It all plays through the same way... I'll rebound into a feeling of sickness, and feel an urge to escape (Escape the escapism?). A real urgency. I'll usually go for a drive, or crawl onto my roof to stare at the sky (Doesn't seem to do it for me anymore). During my escape from reality (Actual escape, this time), I'll get bouts of a total lack of energy. Like I can't, but don't even want to run, walk, or even stand. I'll have to sit down. But it's not like I'm suicidal; if I'm driving, I still drive normally, which is a relief. But my eyes are always somewhere far away. It doesn't seem too dangerous, but I suppose it probably is.
And eventually, I'll just.. stop. I won't feel better, I won't make a task of cheering up, I won't feel vindicated... just like I pick up the pieces I can find on the ground, and go home.
I don't want help. Even if I DID have healthcare that would cover it, I wouldn't want to medicate myself. Half the reason I'm IN this boat seems like I know it wouldn't do any good. Psychiatrists have been telling me nothing profound since I was half my age. Spouting tired after-school special lessons.
With a lot of the pretenses I take, it can sound like I'm just in denial. It would be arrogant to say it simply isn't true. I WISH I was just deluding myself. I'm not THAT cynical, I've looked for solutions, ways out. I've looked hard. Like I was trapped underground.
All of this is ugly. I suppose it's just as well I stopped here.