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It’s been a long, long time since I wrote my last post. I wanted to write, but as I always do with almost everything, I postponed. I don’t know why I do that. Or maybe I do: I am confused. Confusion drains me. It saps my energy and it drains my will.
Sometimes life does not make sense. “Life” is one of my most disliked words. Whenever people use that word, it will be to talk about something sentimental, philosophical or pseudo-intellectual. But I used that word now, for lack of a better way to put it. Yes, my life makes absolutely no sense to me now. In fact, I find the whole process of living quite tedious. I am tired of living. Sometimes I fantasise about dying. At the same time, I do not find suicide an appealing option either. It is like I am trapped. Like I am a coward.
I feel terribly fatigued. I just want to curl up, sleep and never wake up. There is a gnawing lack of purpose. It is almost unbearable. At other times, when I manage to turn off the feeling, I am a cynic who cannot find happiness in the most delightful things of life. At such times, everything seems meaningless, everyone seems annoying. I want to run away, I want to cower from making decisions. Robert Frost did not say the whole story: the confusion doesn’t end with choosing one of two roads. Whatever you choose, you nevertheless end up having more choices to make, with more roads than two. I don’t want to choose. Call me greedy or over-ambitious, but I want them all. I want to know all of the roads, or at least several of them. Whatever I choose, I will always be curious what could have been.
I wish I were old, that there will be no more worries, no more stupid diverging roads, no more choices to make; only the calm of final days and relief of imminent death.
I just wish I could be like everyone else: not worrying too much about meaning and purpose and just go on living without a second’s thought about right and wrong, or sense and nonsense.