It's seems like I've spent my life trying in vain to improve myself. I've always some scheme to improve things. I'll write every day. I won't eat any sugar, starting tomorrow. I will do chores daily. No more procrastination. I'll keep everything shiny and clean and perfect. I rarely make it a day. Never more than a week.
But I keep promising these things to myself. I keep reasoning with myself that I ought to do things that truly make me feel good, not things that I only believe will make me feel good. That bag of chips really didn't make me feel better, and the Bones marathon that kept me up until 2 am didn't provide relief the following day. Nor that night, really.
I find myself facing Paul's problem: the good that I would do, I don't. In the midst of this latest digression, I wrote a piece on how I felt. I know, it sounds like the wailings of an angsty teen. So fair warning, the next bit may not be of use to anyone but myself:
My misery is written in the expanse of my flesh. Grotesque corpulance of sorrow and self-loathing. I find no joy in my life, and punish myself by destroying my physical form, dessicating the mind and torturing the body. I embalm myself in the shallow-false intimacy of the lit screen, torturing my flesh for wrongs I cannot stop perpetrating.
How utterly useless am I in my shrine to self-pity. How ill thought, ill read, ill kempt. A slug of pithy apathy, willing to do no more to remedy my situation than reminisce about the tragedies of normalacy that led me here. It isn't enough. It's never enough.
I feel devoted to secrecy—a foolish, unnecessary secrecy as I really have nothing to hide. I do nothing, I say nothing. I merely languish in my miserable shroud, entombing myself in adipose as I bemoan my fate. As if fate had anything to do with my disease.
It is a disease, isn't it? Surely it must be. Nothing this—no, horrifying is too strong a word: it implies interest, a reach to the edge of human experience, to the fringe of reality—no, nothing this bland and insidious could be sought, could be chosen. It has to be the product of an inescapable force, doesn't it? The ennui of death, a juggernaut of apathy.
But not apathy, really. For apathy would not manifest in rebellion. Rebellion is truly what it is—a deliberate destruction masked in the garb of repentance. A pretense towards change that is little more than an oft-repeated lie.
