Why is it that life is so often but an endless dissatisfaction?
How difficult it is to appreciate the present. Nothing is as good as the anticipation of it. Nothing is as good as the dream of it. Reality is insipid.
Even if we possessed all that we wanted in the world and more, eventually, a day would come when the discontent would once again set in. That strange, indefinable discontent. A wrongness, lodged like a stone in one’s essence.
Some seek escape from it through art, and the egotistical desires tangled up with creation.
Some in beauty, fame, wealth and power.
Little toys to amuse little children. Our parents aren’t coming; they’ve left us at the nursery to die, alone. Whenever this reality sinks in, we thrust it away and distract ourselves by playing and painting and enjoying ourselves.
Why is this so? Wherefore does this unhappiness underlie everything? I loathe it. It makes me squirm with discomfort and feel a hankering to do something mad: set jewels into my pupils, jump off a plane, pet a tiger, climb up the side of a dome. Something to feel alive, to not feel the feeling of being.
Quite similar to the sensation of a young writer whose head bubbles with fantastical worlds and ideas, yet does not have the skill and experience to properly bring them to life. A sort of perpetual precipice of frustration that compels one to scream at the surrounding cliffs until the thousands of stone nooks and crannies and caves echo with the howl of one’s voice, multiplying in millions of tiny screams upon screams.
Everything feels like an echo of an echo.