The recent incidence threw me off balance and my mood fluctuate so fierously that, as I joked to one of my friends, my “world-view” changes on a daily basis. At the time of writing, my world-view is that this world is crap, and I will fight and end up with failures so as to prove that this world is even crappier than I think.
From time to time sorrow still strikes me. I am glad that the situation has not resulted in any hatred towards others, otherwise it would be too easy for me. The irony lies in that this is perhaps the first time (or the second time?) I felt like fighting. Not that I fight to gain something, for what is there to be gained from this world? I fight so that I will not devoured by sadness; I fight because this is the only way I can live after such an experience. This is a fighting with no hopes. Fighting becomes an attitude of life, the end itself rather than a means to an end.
I am not sure if it is sad that, at my age, I am still hopelessly lonely in two senses. There is no cure nor hope for it. Why not going down this path further, to a point that no one knows who you are?
If I were to cure my sadness without any considerations of risks, I should have gone into a battle-field. But I cannot. The number of ways I can fight is rather limited. I cannot just take a year’s leave and go around the world. I cannot train myself to be a Gundam pilot and drown myself in the intensity of battles. But I may drink beer during the course of my presentation. I may complain my life in a creative way. I may write that novel I planned all these years, whose genre changes gradually. I may wrap my reality around black humors and irony. I know these are not decent ways of fighting, but this world is so crappy that it does not leave me much choices.
I have no much expectations for future. I may die early. If I would survive, every year in the future would be just as boring and miserable as now, and even worse.
The loss of this kind of life-style is obvious. It is just like cutting off my limbs, but I find that my life is a little bit better. I cannot go through this trauma. I am changed. I may never be able to go back to the normal state again. But I don’t miss the self in the past. This whole thing is ironic.
When I managed to scramble to the third article, I discovered your misery is not mere daily complaints but keenly-felt pain.
I used to believe that no one would understand or care what I think and never have any intention to leak out my painful thoughts to anyone.
I am amazed you would step out and let out your cry to this world despite the fact that maybe you will receive some negative feedback.
Anyway, you are not so simple-minded as me so the maze lying ahead of you might probobly get way too wound than most of us.