Yohannon (yohannon) wrote,

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Being and Nothingness, or What The Fuck Is Up With All This Rampant Existentialism?

You know, now I KNOW I'm not bi-polar. I would have snapped out of this constant state of Ennui and Angst (and other spiritual social diseases) by now if I was.

I miss my faith. The last entry, when I alluded to the classic late night exhortation to parents (that they needed to be ASKED where there children were at 11 PM is a bit scary on so many levels, and one that they stopped only because the reasons you wouldn't know only get more sinister with each passing year... but I digress!) I was asking it of myself. Why did my gods abandon me? Or, if you look at it as a "as without, so within" algorithm, why did I push them away from me?

I keep picking up the phone to call someone, and then find myself, fingers poised above the buttons, even more lost and confused. Who am I calling? I suddenly catch myself wondering if that number in "Bruce Almighty" might actually work, and only the thought of accidentally harassing some poor bastard stuck with those 7 digits ("No, Jenny does NOT fucking live here, you morons!").* Calling up a god or goddess, or whatever. A voice from beyond, telling me first hand that this is not the pointless morass of confusion that it seems to be.

Ah, passive voice. I had this professor in college once who HATED passive voice, and made me nuts trying to drive it from every single paper I handed in. He was the only one ever to give me less than a "B" on my writing projects and I resented even as I thought it stretched me. He said "Never" to the idea that it had a place in any writing. Ever. But what if the character demands that level of passivity, that sense of weak will, a lack of any motivational force at all?

I'm lacking it, certainly. I feel myself fading away into it. Not going gently, but dragged down into that bizarre limbo that has to be self-imposed if there is nothing out there to save me from it, or maybe even if there was a heavenly host standing at the ready, prepared to be my cavalry. Am I really waving them off? Has some remnant from my irish catholic past imbued me with a sense of martyrdom that would slap a helping hand away from me?

Ah, interesting synchronicity. Peter Gabriel just came up from several gigs of MP3's, chosen at random from over a thousand songs:

"No fight left or so it seems,
I am a man whose dreams
have all deserted
I've changed my face,
I've changed my name,
but no none wants you when you lose"

Ah, and Kate Bush as the voice of hope, begging, pleading me not to give up.

Why can't I stop crying? It makes it hard to type. I check my bottles, and pills have been consumed. Everyone keeps telling me I'm depressed, thinking that there was some magic bullet. This isn't chemistry (though it is, isn't it? Or is it?), this is self inflicted realism. Or is that a lie, too?

When do the lies end? What is truth?

Has anyone gotten a fucking answer yet?

*867-5309. Even after all these years the number just pops into my head, unbidden. And I have trouble with my own phone number!
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