I've gotten to the point in which I'm no longer living each day as it is given to me, but I am living for some distant absolution-- forever waiting for revelations that I know aren't there. It's as if I am already aware of what will come and there is no hope in what cannot be avoided. I'm not longer living for myself, but for the fact that others need me; this I do know. It all would have ended so long ago if I would have solely though for myself, but I did pin-point after the exasperating attempt to gain empty happiness is that humans are symbiotic and we must learn to live for each other. If we are too vain or full of self then we cannot love each other, nor can we truly live amongst one another in a harmonious manner. If you only love yourself, then the few people who one can trap with that infatuation will eventually see what is really fact and the void will leave one bitter and squabbling over what once was-- always what once was.
Lately I've found myself obsessively pondering the meanings of living in this world and the value of my own existence. How relative am I to the whole of the universe? Am I not that irrelevant spec that is so easily forgotten amongst the rest of the sorrows of the world? In trying to grasp the purpose of my being here at this precise coordinate in time, I fall deeper into a realm of unknown mystery and frightening bedazzlement. I no longer have the vitality or will to enjoy the more simple or even extravagant items in life, for my thoughts are forever locked on that one unavoidable burden that hast plagued me for ever long in my mind, as well as my social conflict, in hopes of meeting myself perhaps one last time. It seems that time is in fact no longer relative especially on a scale of my emotionally unstable status of growing in an indecisive manner of thought and mean.
For what am I living for if not myself? Those who have failed me so many times, or perhaps those that speak of undying love for that which they can never be, nor ever truly understand. How can someone know that which does not know his own self? It is but admiration and habitual assumption that fuels the thoughts and concepts of those who have misconstrued their own intentions perhaps. Is not the intent of all humans to love and to be loved? Is this not a most selfish and backward way of thinking? Is not everyone tripping over their own desire to connect with another individual in order to fulfill their own lustful ambition of conceptive perverted joy? People revere pleasure above all else in any sense and they absolve themselves from all reality and make way into a temporary fantasy of seasonal glee. How much more lowly can the abominations of the world fall without consuming the very earth that which they care not for, thus destroying it with disregard for selfless ideals of harmony?
I have tasted the sorrow of the world and I know far too well how quickly the spirits of unruly melancholy join with a person who is so long forgotten to himself. What purpose is there to live for when all hope is lost and all desire fleeting? Such times are these when the meaning of all things is in peril and the world is engulfed with turmoil. The only way to proceed in a positive sort of direction is to fake the feelings and emotions of one's self, and cast aside one's true nature at the expense, for that which was hoped to achieve, of the true divinity of the inner self. How long have I tried to find myself in the dribbled rubble of monotony in effort to escape the catastrophes of this world? So ironic that I now care so little and would rather toss my identity, which for so long I valued as my individuality, than be left in the cold misery of my worthless independence.
Who am I to be living right now? At this exact moment, this precise second am I not writhing upon the ground of the earth as the lowly worms? What beneficiary am I, though I am evil, here to implement upon the grieved world? How can my own life save another when that one will not do the same thing? For what greater purpose of being am I to grace this world only this small time? To live and die is so simple. We are to love the Lord, but for what? Because he loved me first, why? How can you love something that which you do not know? Perhaps this is only human thinking. I had forgotten that God is love so his action on me is inevitable because he is all things, he is me. He composes me, and conducts me as a piece all his own-- that which I am-- and guides me, protects me, and goes forth with me in all of my ways. Under his wings in the darkest of times he allows me refuge because he loves me. So shameful for me to have no ability to return that love; that which has made stars and time itself-- my own existence as well-- all which, for some greater cause I am striving to know, I cannot yet grasp in my mind. Perhaps I will never know or I am not meant to know.
