I can not recall a single genuinely happy moment in my life. I mean, yeah, there were moments where I forgot my pain completely. Like when I kissed.
Most of the moments, I did not actually know of my pain. But it was always there, no matter how little conscious I was of it.
When I saw other people who were genuinely happy, all I could see was a fake facade, because I had no reference for that kind of feeling, for that kind of connection with others. I could not understand why people hug each other, why people smile at each other, why people give compliments to each other, why people respect each other, how people can love. Most of all, it puzzled me how others could like me. It seemed like they were ignorant of my true nature.
It seemed to me like happy people were different kinds of people, somehow fundamentally separate from me. All the happiness anyone ever saw in me was either the high of a fix or a skilled pretense.
That is what I thought life was: A contest of faking happiness.
The art of living – for me – was always to find the perfect tapestry for the ugly and cold concrete walls of my existence. But the walls are wet and the tapestry rots quickly. Restlessness ensues.
The perfect moments of my life were moments when I forgot my pain the best. The perfect moments of my life were moments of perfect drugs.
How do I know that that is not all there is? Because I had a handful of short and vague dreams about. It vibrated inside me and radiated out into the world, making everything beautiful and making other people feel my love. My whole life pales in comparison to a second of that pure joy.
Unfortunately, I find it hard to recall or produce that feeling. It just comes here and there. Sometimes a dream, other times a short glimpse during a meditation that evaporates as soon as I try to focus on it. The concept of joy rather than a true instance of it.
Maybe there even were one or two moments of that feeling in my life. But the point is, I can not recall any. My happiest moments are moments of having found a perfect tapestry. The perfect 10. Oneitis.
The best consistent state I have been in in my life has been, as of lately. That is, relaxed in misery.
Yeah, I extended my arms to welcome this world, quite some time ago. I thought I would and could love it.
does have its perks, of course. For all the blandness of existing in it, it provides a great garden variety of distractions from that existence. Unfortunately, I get bored very quickly.
And so it has come that in the recent months I have been unable to provide myself with all the necessary variety of distractions. I have been increasingly unable to deny and shield my panicky self from a simple truth: Life stinks.
Well, so what. I guess I will have to love it for what it is.
I will have to love people for being assholes.
And I will have to love the world for being a place full of assholes. A toilet, so to seat.
Maybe, then, I can learn to love the asshole that I am myself.
And, after all, I made a vow to love before I was born. Did I? I may be imagining things. But that pure joy thing, that seems like something I want. It seems very distant, yes. Almost unreal. A state in which I have no need for drugs because my own existence is addictive. A constant fix. A state in which there is no single voice or feeling left in my self that I do not understand and enjoy. A state in which I live and do exactly what I am here to do.
A state in which I do not gravitate to others, but feel gravity in my own gut, have the center of self in my midst instead of out there in the world. Unashamed of everything I am. My whole body and mind swinging in one undisturbable frequency..
That day will come. Maybe not in this life. But someday. When I am ready for it.
Who knows, maybe I actually signed up for this shit. Thought I would like to know what life feels like in the gutter. Unloved, abused, guilt-tripped, shamed, conditioned into a disgusting nice guy, , (not sure about this one), , doing a job I hate, losing my possessions, being at the edge of poverty and full of self-loathing. Well, it is interesting, no doubt about that., rejected,
Nah, I am not whining. Simply acknowledging the truth. I am a bitter and angry man. It is all cool. In the end, who gives a damn? I am tired of pretending to be anything else, of pathetically longing for overzealous heroism. There is some beauty to it, you know. The dark side of life. How many can claim to know it as intimately as I do? The cool stuff is, there is not so much to lose for me anymore. In a way, I am feeling more at home in misery than I ever felt chasing tapestry and approval. It is honest this way. Fucking real. Me.
Also, having never really experienced existential joy, I am quite amazed and curious about what lies ahead, for me to discover at such a conscious age. A really epic ascent from hell. Not the downfall of an angel, no, but the uprising of a demon.