That question first weighed on my mind some years ago. I was just getting in to high school. I wasn't ready for it. Hell, I'm still not ready for it. I don't have an answer. I don't even know where to start.
If I had known, then, that this question would haunt me and break me down into this abject and barely functional...thing, I'd have burned it out of my brain just like so many other things.
I think I can safely identify it as part of the root of the problem, at least. That's nice.
But in all seriousness, that is the worst part about being intuitive or intelligent or whatever the fuck you call me. I could have played music for a living, or became a doctor, or gone into biochemical research, or started a business. The research is the strong option right now.
Thing is, staring variability like that in the face, most people default to what they enjoy most. Following your dreams, or what have you.
My curse is that they are all weighted the same. No option appeals more or less than the other.
Once I accepted that, ages past, I realized that was a component of understanding that nothing I did would ever feel like it was good enough. I could be an amazing doctor, and lament the musical career I never had. Or vice versa, etc ad nauseum.
It hurt. It hurt a lot. I shrugged it off and played the game day by day, but it all lead me to here, and all I have left is the sum of my failures.
Some of these things, I realize, it isn't rational to blame myself for...I should not be carrying all of the guilt that I do. Knowing it isn't rational, though, that doesn't tend to help much.
Insanity is portrayed as more glamorous, and that statement alone makes me hate the world.
Genius and insanity have that close-knit relationship and everyone loves to talk about it and not quite outright claim they believe themselves in the first category, but while everyone is willing to look at the heights of achievement one can reach...no.
No one ever, ever talks about the anguish and suffering. We're all about overcoming adversity. Truth is, those beautiful achievements do very little to soothe the misery. How would I know?
Intuition.
I do mean misery. I don't notice it as a significant factor anymore because it's been my resting pulse for nearly a decade, but I am relentlessly unhappy.
Most of that is predictable, if you have all the variables.
You don't, and I am not going to give them to you.
I used to have this notion that I could overcome all of this for love.
That was quaint and pretty and so very terribly wrong, and I'd give a lot to take back the attempt because it still fucking hurts to have failed so utterly - myself, sure, but mostly the truth of hurting another in the process of my downward spiral.
There's blame number one. Or is it? See, it's hard to tell. Do I blame myself for her feeling the need to leave?
Yes.
Same way I blame myself in no small part for the deaths of all my friends who had diseases that maybe
I told you it wasn't rational.
I've been doing the isolation thing again lately. I didn't realize it until I considered how long it's been since I had an honest conversation with another soul. Go figure.
So it all boils down to that question. Motivation. I want to do something, but what? How do I choose and deal with leaving everything else unfulfilled? I can't have everything. I can't even have most of it. Probably not even some.
But nothing, nothing is getting old. I am tired of being goddamn tired all the time, and my mind is stagnating. I can't help but worry about the onset of rot.
I don't know precisely what to do about it, aside from seeing that for the moment, my only real option is to open myself up to all the guilt and shame and ache. There's a reasonable chance it'll spark something inside of me.
Or I'll drown in it.
But change is good, right?
Funny notion, that.
Some caterpillars endure metamorphosis and become butterflies.
Others get eaten.
- C
