Waiting has been a theme for most of my life, the life that passed me by as I made plans for when my unrealistic pipe dreams came true. Now, of course, I'm simply waiting for my outlook to look rosier and to reap the alleged rewards of self-discipline. And I have to wonder if that will ever happen either. It's so easy for depressives to believe that everyone sees the world as we do with its weariness and dreariness and that the world will be forever colored so grey.
Every day I get up and drag myself through the grind without pleasure or passion, only "this is what I must do." I foolishly yet religiously play the lottery twice a week, believing that nothing but cataclysmic dumb luck could transform my life into a palatable existence. And every day I worship at the altar of my own personal monomyth of the Ascended Man if only... If only I keep sober... If only I exercise... If only I eat right... If only I spend well... If only I force myself through my daily toil... If only, if only, if only... If only Meaning and Purpose (and even Love) weren't illusions of the neocortex—evolutionary adaptations, just to eventually be ground down themselves by the inexorable march of time and death.
Every day I get up and drag myself through the grind without pleasure or passion, only "this is what I must do." I foolishly yet religiously play the lottery twice a week, believing that nothing but cataclysmic dumb luck could transform my life into a palatable existence. And every day I worship at the altar of my own personal monomyth of the Ascended Man if only... If only I keep sober... If only I exercise... If only I eat right... If only I spend well... If only I force myself through my daily toil... If only, if only, if only... If only Meaning and Purpose (and even Love) weren't illusions of the neocortex—evolutionary adaptations, just to eventually be ground down themselves by the inexorable march of time and death.
