tenchi muyo 
subjugating ennui
I feel so sick I can hardly stand up (haven't been taking care of myself, as usual), but my mind's a mess so I'm writing this hoping to make sense of the insensible. Coming back from vacation and realizing tomorrow's another holiday leaves a deep sentiment of futility for some quixotic, unknown reason. Further realizing that tomorrow is just another day with nothing to look forward to, and I'm back to square one. And I thought a vacation would help.
It was a refreshing change of scenery, that's for sure. Too bad the scenery was crowded with other vacationers. It was nice to do nothing of importance; sleeping during the day when it was crowded, going night swimming when there was nobody around but the people I like to be around with, fiddling with the guitars and creating sweet melodies out of nothing, racing on the go-kart tracks and losing miserably to the others by crashing into barriers, playing futsal under the cool, glaring stare of the stadium lights. Just to name a few nothings.
But that's what holidays are for -- to lose oneself in the reassuring pretense that this is life, this wild and care-free world full of mindless diversions and endless gratification. A grandiose indulgence in luxury, living off the fat of the land. On that primrose path of contentment, I was the king of my world. How princely that feeling, how magnificent, how splendid, how unreal.
Alas, as with everything good, it had to end. When reality kicks in gear, you find yourself back where you came from. Like love, like life, like happiness, it ends. Is this it? Does life revolve around the miserable plodding of daily grind, intermittenly punctuated by moments of exultant delight?
I grow weary of this world and its vicious cycles of futility. Pain, pleasure, and back again. Love, hate, repeat. Live, die, and so on and so forth. All the tears we shed will be replaced by our children's, all the things we create will crumble to dust. We buy all the things we don't need so that future generations can emulate us. We run the show for the 15 minutes of our lives until the curtain is drawn for the next show on stage to come on.
I can (as I am doing now) bury myself in books as a form of escapism, to look the other way, to hide from the inevitable for as long as the illusion lasts. Or I can face the fucking music and stare harsh, cruel reality in the eye. I'm just not sure if there's a difference. The ambitions we have, the legacies we'll leave. For posterity? It all seems so fucking pointless to me.
It was a refreshing change of scenery, that's for sure. Too bad the scenery was crowded with other vacationers. It was nice to do nothing of importance; sleeping during the day when it was crowded, going night swimming when there was nobody around but the people I like to be around with, fiddling with the guitars and creating sweet melodies out of nothing, racing on the go-kart tracks and losing miserably to the others by crashing into barriers, playing futsal under the cool, glaring stare of the stadium lights. Just to name a few nothings.
But that's what holidays are for -- to lose oneself in the reassuring pretense that this is life, this wild and care-free world full of mindless diversions and endless gratification. A grandiose indulgence in luxury, living off the fat of the land. On that primrose path of contentment, I was the king of my world. How princely that feeling, how magnificent, how splendid, how unreal.
Alas, as with everything good, it had to end. When reality kicks in gear, you find yourself back where you came from. Like love, like life, like happiness, it ends. Is this it? Does life revolve around the miserable plodding of daily grind, intermittenly punctuated by moments of exultant delight?
I grow weary of this world and its vicious cycles of futility. Pain, pleasure, and back again. Love, hate, repeat. Live, die, and so on and so forth. All the tears we shed will be replaced by our children's, all the things we create will crumble to dust. We buy all the things we don't need so that future generations can emulate us. We run the show for the 15 minutes of our lives until the curtain is drawn for the next show on stage to come on.
I can (as I am doing now) bury myself in books as a form of escapism, to look the other way, to hide from the inevitable for as long as the illusion lasts. Or I can face the fucking music and stare harsh, cruel reality in the eye. I'm just not sure if there's a difference. The ambitions we have, the legacies we'll leave. For posterity? It all seems so fucking pointless to me.
PLAYLIST
Somebody Else -- Bleu
Shadow Stabbing -- Comfort Eagle
Ize Of The World -- The Strokes
Uninvited -- Alanis Morissette
Bullets -- Creed
*
posted by the narcissist at 11:45:00 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home