There is no heaven, there is no hell. This is it. This is both. To believe there is an “after” is to rob yourself of happiness.
I believe in neither, but I chose the later most often than not. I make my own life hell, I cause hell, and I live there, or my own version of it at least.
I have nearly nothing tangible to be depressed about, but perhaps I am? I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it’s because I’m so selfish. I mix that word up with shellfish a lot of the time. I’m not fulfilled, and I think to do that, is to open up to the rest of the whole thing. But I’m not motivated a lot of the time. I am productive. I don’t even think I’m that great of a person. However at some point not too long ago I think I was capable of being one.
Believing in an “after” is what we’ve all been told to believe so when we do believe it, we then believe all the rest of the lines we’re sold. Social norms, giving up your dreams for a tolerable livelihood, food. Taxes, the “American Dream,” never straying too far. Worshipping television stars, movie stars, even more worship for those who do nothing, and come from nothing. Being a social media star whatever that means. It hit me when humans began creating content by simply filming themselves miming audio already created. We live in a world that worships recycled nothing. It’s all nothing now.
Nobody is saying anything, anymore.
The thing is, we’re all okay with it now. We’ve relented, we’ve given up. And even worse, is that anyone who actually has anything to say, is lost in the sea of bullshit we all have access to now. “There are no gatekeepers now.” They like to say. Well maybe that’s not always a fucking good thing. There’s almost nothing to work for anymore. There aren’t any tapes to send, articles to write, films to make. Make for who? and for what?
Maybe I’m simply thinking defeatistly because I’ve given up, or think I have. I don’t yet know if I have, and won’t until I’m near dead looking back if I did all I could, or gave it hardly anything at all.
I haven’t candlepined in years now. Covid be damned. I should for my birthday. It’s coming up you know. The big 30. I think at one point in my life, I might’ve cared about it, all the dreams I had, all the things I wanted to do all my life and how it would happen and how I would make it happen. But now? Every day seems the same. I can’t even say it’s Covid now, it just is.
The first part of this was nice to write, now I don’t know where it’s going. It’s been ages since I’ve felt productively creative. I need to go live, and I feel like I haven’t done it in quite some time.
Here’s to thirty, and perhaps thirty after if I’m remotely lucky.