I'm not sure what the point is.
Of anything, really. I survive, barely. I work. I have a few dozen people all make it clear that somehow their happiness is dependent on me. I go home. I doze half the evening. I wake up and watch the same TV over and over again. I try to write and fail.
You know, fourteen years ago, I was convinced the world was a grand, and magical place. I had and knew love. I had people I spent every day with. I had nothing but hopes for the future.
Now? The world isn't magical. I spend my days with coworkers, then can't even stay away to stay in contact with my friends online. I'm becoming convinced there is no love in the twenty-first century. And I'm thinking a lot about death.
Not about suicide, really. There is a difference. But about death. If I were to die right now, right here, it seems to me the only real repercussion would be for my cat. Oh, I have friends, and they'd grieve. I don't mean to minimize them. But they'd survive, they'd move on, they'd remember me a couple of times a year, and occasionally bring me up. Frank would get wistful sometimes, talking to his wife or some old friends. And that would be it.
Nothing meaningful would follow in the path of my life. Nothing enduring would remain. And it seems increasingly likely that nothing will. So what is the point? Why do we pretend? Why do I endure ten hours a day of stress and angry people and come home and play with a cat and then sleep so I can go back?
Why bother? What is the god damned point?
Of anything, really. I survive, barely. I work. I have a few dozen people all make it clear that somehow their happiness is dependent on me. I go home. I doze half the evening. I wake up and watch the same TV over and over again. I try to write and fail.
You know, fourteen years ago, I was convinced the world was a grand, and magical place. I had and knew love. I had people I spent every day with. I had nothing but hopes for the future.
Now? The world isn't magical. I spend my days with coworkers, then can't even stay away to stay in contact with my friends online. I'm becoming convinced there is no love in the twenty-first century. And I'm thinking a lot about death.
Not about suicide, really. There is a difference. But about death. If I were to die right now, right here, it seems to me the only real repercussion would be for my cat. Oh, I have friends, and they'd grieve. I don't mean to minimize them. But they'd survive, they'd move on, they'd remember me a couple of times a year, and occasionally bring me up. Frank would get wistful sometimes, talking to his wife or some old friends. And that would be it.
Nothing meaningful would follow in the path of my life. Nothing enduring would remain. And it seems increasingly likely that nothing will. So what is the point? Why do we pretend? Why do I endure ten hours a day of stress and angry people and come home and play with a cat and then sleep so I can go back?
Why bother? What is the god damned point?