Posted on June 17, 2017
At this point, I’m not even sure who or what I’m writing to. I just find a comfort in typing out my thoughts. Whether or not anyone reads them is a mystery to me. I just know that I’m sick of not being able to do a damn thing with my life.
Every single time that I try to create something, it seems to fail.
What I leave behind is never for myself. Everything is for what I think would please the imaginary audience that plagues my mind half of the time. The mind is a truly terrifying thing. It’s capable of showing horrors unable to fully describe. To describe them would not be serving justice to the words. Everything just spirals and spins like a top on a desk.
I just want to do something that matters to another person. The constant lack of support is what truly hurts me. I honestly don’t even know where to look at this point. I just want to be smarter. I want to go farther with myself, but the lack of anyone seeming to care stops me from trying hard enough. I give up on myself.
I forget that I’m just a frightened animal on a rock that doesn’t care whether I exist or not. Each continuing day just makes me feel like I’m becoming more of what I thought I had evolved past. I sink back to the same mold that encapsulates everyone, so hell bent on making enough money to be sedated and satisfied. I know that I sound exactly like every ignorant punk that doesn’t understand the world, but I finally think I understand.
The world doesn’t care. It never did.
To it, you make as much of an impact as it’s greatest predator or it’s smallest insect. Whether you had untold riches or couldn’t spare a cent. There is a light darkness to the world that isn’t truly light or dark. Its simply gray. It exists simply do to chance. It’s pointless to argue against it, because you get the same response every time you question why. Silence.
Time is relative. It could be endless or all at once. Time is pointless to one with a broken clock, or seemingly everything to a watchmaker. Time never had a point. No motive or reason. It simply exists. Just like you. Like everyone who asks for the time.
Intelligence is a noble pursuit, but meaningless to a meaningless world. When you die, what happens? This question plagues everyone, whether they can read or not. An idiot and a genius share the same planet, and the planet doesn’t care how smart you think you are. The same conclusion follows.
You could have read every book in existence or never touched a page.
That kind of makes the whole book meaningless.
I prefer to think of it all like a bonus.
We exist simply due to a series of decisions created by countless generations before us. These generations were perfectly content with being illiterate. They never felt a need to post on a website or write a song. To drive a car or have a job. Life exists. It does until it doesn’t.
Just be glad that you get to watch it as it goes by.