Life is a struggle, they say, hence fight. Don’t give in, no matter what. It’s what you owe to yourself and what you demand of yourself. You are entitled to be joyful or sad, lonely or fulfilled as long as you fight. As long as you walk the distance; no one else can walk it for you. You stop, you die. Metaphorically, but way worse than physically.
So fight, they say. But they never say what. I’d stand my ground and fight if I only knew what to fight; how would become easier once I found out what, or who.
Is it a twisted mind, where decisions never linger long enough to make a change?
Is it the urge to feel accepted and appreciated as a way of life?
Is it the sudden switch between cruel selfishness and extreme self-scorn in approaching others?
Is it the fear of being all alone, although I know this is how you are from cradle to the grave?
Is it the temptation of clinging to the glorious past – which was never actually that glorious, or of projecting unrealistic and romantic futures?
Is it the old habits that hurt me so, but they also provide a sick comfort zone?
Is it the conviction that I’m such a scum of a person that I don’t deserve to dream, that I don’t deserve to hope?
Is it the wonder why I can’t be loved, although I’m marvelous, so then again maybe I’m awful – no surprise the disdain starts with me?
Is it the self-inflicted wounds I never allow to heal, scraping the crust so no new tissue could cover them, so no scars would show up, although they dig deeper and deeper, to the core?
I’ll do the fight, I promise, just show me the enemy. Is it me? Is it life the way I know it? Is it existence failing? Is it the perpetual sin of human nature degrading? I’ll find the means or drive myself to exhaustion searching for them, but I’d at least have to know their purpose. What am I fighting?
For exhausted I am anyway; all this not knowing is wearing me out, so that no slumber can overcome it with rest. I get sick of working, of running, of eating, of writing, of going out, of enjoying small fragments of life; I’m too tired and too ill-disposed for anything or anyone, and I force myself to function. Or is this the fight?
“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Damn it, what did Samuel Becket know anyway?!
(21 feb 2019)