I am not made for this world. This is not a threat, merely an observation. Whatever mechanism exists to keep the mind turning over, emptying and filling, and tackling each new problem without the weight of consciousness perpetually halting the means of production, whatever mechanism that is I am not in possession of it. Maybe none of us really have it, just some people are better liars. I write a lot of about self-configuring and modular thinking and I speak from a place of longing. In university I wrote essays long before they were due, since discovering fundamental flaws in economic theory and resource shortages, I have taught myself how to garden and preserve food and exact an exit strategy, not because I am particularly keen and motivated, I do it out of an awareness of my shortcomings, to get a running start.
So why am I the way I am? I kind of wish I had some lurid tale to tell if only to have something to hold onto for myself - an explanation gives one a fighting chance to encircle and dominate that which hurts. I have no story. My mind works, sometimes too efficiently. Were I to console myself with heroics, I would liken this behavior to the Icarus myth. I could see the way others cope as a gift of ignorance, flying at such low altitudes. Or there is the old Thoreau chestnut, all people live lives of quiet desperation, and in that I can feel normal. I don't feel normal.
I have been good for years but the pressure has come back, not as bad as before, but each new time hurts more because it undermines everything I thought I had gained. The experience is fuzzy, I shut down, I lose interest in everything, I feel paranoid, lonely. The only plan of attack I can formalize is that I need to get ahead of it, that if I let this feeling steer I am done for. Most people, if confronted with this, would talk it out, have a good cry, and get over it. I feel like I need to make seismic changes just to be able to breathe easier. It is a struggle for me to claw back to being normal. I had a temporary drinking problem when I was younger but I never adhered to the adage: once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic... the liquid itself holds no power over me. But once a melancholic, always a melancholic, I do believe. For I let the darkness in once and it never left.
So why am I the way I am? I kind of wish I had some lurid tale to tell if only to have something to hold onto for myself - an explanation gives one a fighting chance to encircle and dominate that which hurts. I have no story. My mind works, sometimes too efficiently. Were I to console myself with heroics, I would liken this behavior to the Icarus myth. I could see the way others cope as a gift of ignorance, flying at such low altitudes. Or there is the old Thoreau chestnut, all people live lives of quiet desperation, and in that I can feel normal. I don't feel normal.
I have been good for years but the pressure has come back, not as bad as before, but each new time hurts more because it undermines everything I thought I had gained. The experience is fuzzy, I shut down, I lose interest in everything, I feel paranoid, lonely. The only plan of attack I can formalize is that I need to get ahead of it, that if I let this feeling steer I am done for. Most people, if confronted with this, would talk it out, have a good cry, and get over it. I feel like I need to make seismic changes just to be able to breathe easier. It is a struggle for me to claw back to being normal. I had a temporary drinking problem when I was younger but I never adhered to the adage: once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic... the liquid itself holds no power over me. But once a melancholic, always a melancholic, I do believe. For I let the darkness in once and it never left.
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