The inadequacy I feel is crushing.
I can’t believe I am here.
How did I even get here?
I know the various traumas. I feel like a broken recorder. No one likes to hear complaints. Well perhaps you won’t mind if this life experience resonates.
Part of me can’t except it.
Part of me can’t believe it.
I used to be happy with myself. There was a time, dare I say, when I was even proud of some of my abilities.
The part that hurts the most is that I used to work so hard. I still do, but there is only one type of measure in the eyes of society that relates to GDP. Even on a country level we don’t care about happiness. Just how much money we can produce.
I can’t dissociate myself from the bombardment of propaganda. What I feel is what they want me to feel. Shame. But because I’m aware I feel frustration too. Of course there are pockets of pure joy, but outside of that bliss, the overriding feeling is fear if I think beyond this moment. You see, I have already experienced how everything can be shattered in an instant.
I keep going. The thought that this all ends one day, for sure, keeps me going. Yes it’s bleak, but it is a coping device.
Might as well enjoy it and take it day by day and ignore the naysayers. At least my partner thinks so. He has a hard time convicting me to live for the day. But I truly appreciate that he’s actually worried my cancer will recur. I’ve pushed that out of my mind. I want to be an ostrich now.
In a way I would love a definite deadline and then I would live without a care in the world. I guess we all would.
Such is the burden of consciousness. And no wonder they say ignorance is bliss.