Of Another Hiatus and an Indecent Deception

I haven't been telling the whole truth.

It's been a while, hasn't it?

So often when I have good stretches of time, so often when depression is off my back, I often forget to chronicle it all. Forget is maybe the wrong word. Deception is perhaps a strong word. It's not fair to anyone, myself included, that I don't make an effort to publish the positive.

If this was a true and honest recollection of my journey with the Dog, then I should make the time to jot down the strides I've made in the fight. A honest recollection of the positives should also be represented. I still only find myself retreating to these confines when I'm ruminating and stewing with my own negativity in some sort of terrible black broth.

If this blog is some sort of rudimentary art, which an argument could be made for any form of writing, then I lose my muse without... the blues?

I just rhymed there. It was terrible. I feel bad about it. You get a little rusty when you don't habitually pick up the quill (keyboard).

I've had a really great couple of months and have come up with a lot of life realizations, habits and methods to battle the beast, and even changes in thoughts and concepts to what is is to really live the Good life. Maybe this is all the philosophy from the Greek rock-stars we all know and (should?) love. Maybe this is existential and tough-to-chew-on reading from the French existentialists. It's probably a whole mixed cocktail of the above and the heavy dosage of theology, mythology, stories, experiences, and just real live people in my life.

It's difficult to track the points in which you have those eureka moments, even more so just looking back on recently past time and trying to recall with a furrowed brow. I find it easier to dispense half-cocked wisdom and armchair therapy when people ask these days. It should be noted that people only ask in the first place because I'm the asshole that decides to be all open and gooey about all this brain stuff. It's kind of becoming my shtick at this point.

It's not even like I've turned a page now.

I'm only here staring at this window because I'm in a moment of crisis. I have no wisdom to dispense. I have no knowledge bombs to drop. I'm completely bare to the teeth of this disease in moments like this.

Alone. Worthless. Ugly.

These thoughts are still constant, they're still inelegant. boring, and cruel deceptions part of me tells the other part of me.

There's a point somewhere in here. If I root around a bit with words maybe we'll stumble on something.

These thoughts are still constant and they're almost impossible to refute. I know when I get this way, this way I am right now at 1:10 AM in Black Hawk, South Dakota, they're almost considered as facts to my mind. Disproving something that your brain believes to be so true and so powerful isn't easy. You can't just flip a switch and feel empowered. You can't just turn a key and feel beautiful.

You have to remember.

You have to remember the way this moment feels, just like you remember the way it feels after kissing the girl for the first time.

You have you remember this loneliness and this hurt and this sorrow and this loathsome feeling in your gut, just like you remember what it feels like to take off restrictive clothes at the end of a long and arduous day. (Think of your bras, ladies.)

You have to remember the pain, the racing thoughts, the aimless pacing and wandering, just like you remember the smell of the warm summer morning and the fresh cut grass.

The trick to this way of thinking is that each and everything amplifies the other. The lower the low, the higher the high. Be present in this terrible and loathsome moment because there is immense value in experiencing this terrible and loathsome moment. It's still a moment and every second has an unprecedented and unquantifiable value in our lives.

Anyone would agree that we'd work to extend the good moments. We want them to last as long as possible. There's nothing except your perception that is labeling this particular moment as good or bad, right or wrong. This can be a remembered moment in your personal story. This can be the moment when everything turns around and life has meaning and worth.

It's easier said then done, that's for damn sure.

You can run and find a crutch, you can source a distraction, you can nullify and diminish the experience. Pick your poison.

Or...

You can choose to think differently about the whole nasty ordeal and breathe value into an otherwise dismal and hopeless stretch of time. It's very possible to create worth in even the most seemingly worthless moment.

Then again, this may just be the insomnia talking. You probably shouldn't listen to the heavy-handed soap-boxing of a depressive and sleep-deprived lunatic, but sometimes the crazy loons have just the right dose of lunacy to solve a problem. I never said it was a common occurrence, but, hey, anything can happen.

This is all more for me right now. Writing always helps, strangely. Shameless self-reminder to talk about jealousy and attachment next time. Hopefully not in another four months, but much sooner.

Message in a Bottle

Echoing loudly on the side of nauseating at this point, I'm going to ramble a bit about #socialmedia ...again.

After the last post I threw out, many people in my life (as in, more than one) reached out to me hurt or angry. I don't write anything on here for any other goal than to write to a future version of myself and maybe help a wayward depression battler along the way.

I don't write anything with any agenda.
I don't write to cause pain or spread misery.
I write for the sole purpose of releasing emotion or insight so that I can purge it from my system. The fortunate (or unfortunate) effect of this is that people can latch on and share emotion, realizing that we're not alone in this fight.

Some folks mention that they like to read my inane scribblings for various reasons. This is all beside the point. I write for me first and foremost. I need to see movement with this illness. I can't settle for stagnation. Unlike visibly seeing a scar heal, we cannot see proof of the progress. The whole process of healing is intangible and invisible to the physical eye.

Documenting emotions and feelings is the only way I know how to track this slow, seemingly endless slugfest with the overly mentioned black dog. (Captain's Log, Day 223, etc.)

Why on the internet? Why not in the confines of a private journal or secret hard drive? Because I like the romantic ideal that this is me getting as close to putting a worn piece of parchment in a glass bottle and pushing it to sea from the isolated prison of this illness. I sit with a million bottles and a million ideas. Maybe there's a one-in-a-billion shot that someone out there, some wayward shiphand ("Googler"), might hear the bottle (post) clink against the hull of the ship (browser window) and read (click) my message (URL).

I'm not sure if that metaphor even makes sense to me, or what makes sense to me anymore... or if anything has ever made sense... ever.

Swimming back to whatever point I was trying to formulate, I've once again opted to be a volunteering pariah of online society. I currently lack the self discipline to use it for good and positive ways. I only measure myself against peers and screw things up with friendships I would like to maintain, fractured and broken as they may appear.

(The majority of the daily readers came from syndication with Facebook, Twitter and other forms of means-to-connect. Seeing as how I've discontinued my use of such digital venues, I highly doubt more than three people stumble on this.

Clink. // Any use of hashtags is strictly satirical.)

Playing Pretend and Social Media

I go on these stints of social media hiatus. Trips I tend to take frequently for various reasons. I feel that social media and it's various forms don't do much to remedy the sense of loneliness I get when battling the dog.

Usually people don't even notice that I'm no longer in their various feeds, timelines, or what have you. "Didn't you see that thing on Facebook?" I'll be asked frequently in the real world. Which I usually reply in some such capacity that I haven't been on social media for personal reasons. It's a big deal for my brain to force myself out of the scenarios presented online, but the remainder of the populace doesn't even notice.

Imagine the progress that I lose whenever I eventually cave and revert back to social media. Not only has everyone in my life moved on, but they've done so without me even being a blip on the radar. Old flames have moved on to bigger and better relationships, put me in their rearview and not looked back. Friends and co-workers live life as though when I leave their sight I just vanish into the tomes of some imaginative story somewhere. I'm to be called upon in a later chapter when I play a supporting role in their personal narrative.

It gets very difficult to maintain this facade of being okay while out in public. I laugh, I talk, I pretend to feel attractive when a pretty girl smiles at me... I'm just pretending, this is all just a big game of make-believe. It's unfair of me to think that I'd play a bigger role in certain individuals lives. Some sort of malicious egotistical thought process fathomed up by a boy that doesn't matter too much.

I finally caved in tonight, hoping to see some sort of happiness or social interaction by logging back in to the virtual halls of the interwebs. I look for signs that may have noticed I was gone, there are none. Life moves on, forever on and on. People that used to play a huge role in my life now continue their story without me in it at all, only a vague memory of a time that once was. Whether this is for better or worse, I couldn't tell you. I'd want to believe the former, though my brain would present heaps of evidence to the latter.

The process is always the same. I justify myself logging back into the confines of cyberspace through many reasons, but always have one stipulation I give myself. A stipulation that I always fail at upholding. I allow myself access to this social network, in the hopes that it helps my sense of emptiness, by promising myself not to look into the lives of people I've been jealous of in the past or brilliant women that I've loved/still love.

I always fail.

Unable to resist the urge to pry into the world outside of my own, these people have seemingly great lives. They're all moving on without the weight of me in their life. Even if it's not someone that's been at the forefront of my life, I see happy babies and smiling photos of couples. New houses or cars populate the stream of information regurgitation piping into my sight.

Despite me trying to seem calm, collected, cool about not getting text messages or call outs from the people I care about... it's fucking devastating. Some part of my brain thinks that people will eventually realize that the great and admirable Brett is missing from their daily interaction and send me a lifeline. It's been over a week since I've gotten any correspondence from the people I really want to hear from.

A fraction of me wants to reach out and ask, why? Why am I not worth the time? Was I just that much of an emotional drain? Are you that much better without me in your life?

The gall I have to think I should matter to anyone anyway. You have your boyfriends and spouses, why do you need a whiny me in your life? You don't. No one does. This always happens and it always causes a spiraling out of the somewhat bearable airspace of contentedness. I see life going on without me and it strikes a very loud realization every time.

Even if I were to end my life, life would still go on for others. How would I be remembered anyway? Probably as the "nice guy" that was always the beta male uncertain of his social status, always in his own head.

What I would give to be content and not have to pretend to be okay all the time. I pretend even now. Writing this, MAYBE ten pretend people will read it. Does that justify the effort? Does it even give me any solace from my own pain? Out of those ten people that read this, is one of them who I really want to know how I feel? Does it even matter how I feel? If not to her, him, them... then to me?

Out of everyone else that may or may not care about Brett, you think that the person that should at least care a little bit is the one inhabiting the vessel of Brett. Nope, not right now.

Life goes on with or without me walking around in it. To me it seems most people have more productive and healthy lives when I keep my distance and fade into the white noise of the supporting cast.

Hating Who You Are

I'm drinking and just want to air some dirty brain laundry.

The man I am is weak.

I am a poor excuse in measuring myself against anyone of real mental strength or fortitude. Woe is me, I am a sad example for an anything. Let us continue to throw a pity party and hope someone gives a shit. I push people away from my depression and myself in this attempt to save them from me. I want to save people the hassle of having me, Brett Hamre, in their life in any fashion. I spend hours agonizing over how I've wasted thousands of people's time and brought a negative impact on their life. All I want to do is leave a positive impact, yet here I sit---bellowing against the void, agonizing over every mistake or shortcoming.

I push people away even though, ironically, I want them to persist and stay. I want them to show me some love or sympathy. I don't want your sympathy! (Yes, part of me does.) Despite my attempts to fall on my own melodramatic sword... I am lonely. I want people to care. I think this is the human condition, or maybe just my purely selfish disposition.

Every day I think, with increasing fervour, that I should really just cash in my chips and settle my debts. Again, we confer to a cryptic allusion to suicide or death. A final answer to a temporary problem... for most. Not for me, for me this "temporary" problem has been persistent for nearly a decade of my life. It's the core of who I am, and what I consist of. My past and future reek of depression, self-pity, self-loathing, self-hate.

Actions I attempt to take out of the goodness of my heart are viewed in wildly different light than I even could fathom to comprehend. I don't do anything maliciously or with an agenda, ever. Other people constantly think I do. I'm always out to better myself or win someone over with a gift or gesture.

What the fuck do other people matter anyway? Right? It's it what we've all grown up learning that it doesn't matter what others think as long as you follow your heart. My heart, which I now increasingly becomes more and more numb to any emotion, is always in question. I always think my intentions are pure and true, and always considered myself altruistic, sometimes almost to a fault. Despite these thoughts, I've always recognized and agonized over when I did too little for someone or stood idly by while something could have been changed.

I understand why people drink. I understand why people medicate. I am in so much agonizing mental anguish every single day. This only lifts when I am with a few other genuine people in my life. This is unfair to them. I feel as though I am using them to escape from the hell I've built in my head. I've become reliant on other people to have a purpose to carry on living (at least existing).

I've failed the last college class I took because I couldn't force myself to write anything. Every word (including these) is tired and poorly written. They are all hollow and taunting in their reflection of the author's infinite lack of composition and guile. I sit again, forcing myself to write out the trail of thoughts currently circling in my head. They make no sense. There is no end to them. There is no believable conclusion or outright answer to anything.

Everyday I look into the mirror and stare at myself. Stare at what I can't believe is the body I am imprisoned in. I look at my faults, the weakness, the ugliness. Even though I am prompted to change, is there any changing for me? Is masking myself in muscle and tone any disguise for the pathetic monster that lives inside that shell? No.

So, I become more well-read and take care of my physical body. Let's assume that in six months time I am in the best shape of my life. Let's also assume that I've somehow become an interesting person that knows something about the world, anything for that matter. I'm still a depressive 25-year old that's failed more times then I've succeeded and feel like that's the way the future will always play out.

Wow. This all sounds like I'm just completely bitching and whining. I am.

Tangentially to whole depression debacle, I'm pretty sure I'm in love with a girl that I have no business being in love with. I should be allowed to love. I bring only heartbreak and pain to those who I caress. A curse which I will not impose on even the most resilient of persons.

Increasing is the emphasis on ceasing to exist. I'm attempting to save people from me. I have no right to have friends. I am incapable of being entirely selfless and caring for another person, despite me believing my intentions are full of honor or valor. I am a scared child in the skin of an older man. I don't deserve your time and should be okay without it.

Digressing to whatever point I'm rambling at... I look around my room, the confines of what I thought I inhabited, and am disgusted. I spent this much money on this much bullshit? I spent a large chunk of my life pursuing things that don't matter. Material things that mean nothing in the end. I have the grand notion of giving it all away, but then who am I? If not the sum of the things I've collected, what point did all of the past years of work serve?

The answers to all these questions I can hazard to guess, or even may know. This doesn't change the fact that they are still running through my mind constantly. They impede self-growth and rob me of any sanity I think I'm still clinging to.

There doesn't exist a soul, past, present, future, that should have to cope with the feeling of worthlessness that I drink deeply from daily. Even now. Even now I know only a half-dozen people have even struggling through these words... I can only think to apologize for wasting your time. There isn't a point to any of this. There isn't an enlightening thought or lesson to be learned here. I can't see one anyway.

You've indulged me long enough.

A Glaring Lack of Syntax

Only one thing lately seems to shut off the thoughts in my head, and that is currently no longer having its desired effect.

I blare hip hop, rap, pop in my headphones. Anything that has a string of nonsensical words and a predictable beat to follow. This is the only thing that kept my tormenting mind at bay. It used to be that

Every day I make a choice. The choice is always the same and it always comes up more than once in a single cycle of the sun.

Do I continue to exist?

I could just as easily stop this all, at the risk of sounding bleak. (Ha.)

Do I choose to wake up every morning and repeat this cycle, again and again? Is there some sort of future where I can find enjoyment in living without struggling for every minute of it.  Believe you me, I'm sick of being a downer too. Brett the proverbial wet blanket in every situation. 

This is a choice that every free-thinking man has on this bustling blue rock. For some this choice doesn't ever enter the picture. You are blessed.

This music is terrible.

All my mind lets me think of is my short-comings. The relationships I've failed at, the friendships I've fumbled, the opportunities wasted and squandered. How much time do I waste in any given day not living? I've said it before, and I still feel this way. This is not living, only existing---barely existing at that.

I don't consume food for the taste, it has none.
This loathsome music is just buzzing white noise now.

I lack the energy to finish a cognitive thought.
It's easy to reason, it's easy to say what I should be doing and that I won't end up dying an old hermit. However, I can't summon the strength to be anything but a burden to those who once cared about me, or perhaps still do. I shake, I convulse. I talk to myself more frequently, the probable conversation of a postulate madman.

I can't make any sense of this. I feel like ugly incarnate. I don't deserve your attention. I don't deserve anyone's attention. The glaring lack of self-worth running rampant through my brain. No matter how many positive comments I fabricate to describe myself, I count myself a liar.

How can I trust anything that I've ever felt or experienced? Have I ever even been in love? Do I know what loss is? If everything is so fragile and nothing can be rationalized in my mind, how does any of this make any sense? You don't have the answer, nobody has the answer. I don't know if I'm even a subject to this disease, maybe I'm just making this all up in some way or fashion.

I don't deserve to be in any sort of relationship.

Surrounded by people and yet I'm so unavoidably alone.

Note to self, work on syntax. Mental illness is no excuse for sloppy grammar.

The Urge to be a Martyr*

 

 Everyday I wake up, much like everyone wakes up.

     Many people groan about having to go to work, some lucky few greet the day with a smile or some varying degree of jubilant position, some others hit the snooze button and procrastinate leaving the warm confines of bed for those last precious nine (or multiples thereof) minutes.

     Everyday I wake up, I become displeased. Displeased because I didn't miraculously become a happy individual. Displeased that I didn't cease to exist and that this whole cyclical notion of going through the motions of a normal person hasn't ended. I don't want to eat breakfast. I don't want to look in the mirror at this sad pathetic humanoid looking back with hollow blue eyes. I don't recognize it and I don't like it.

     It takes all of my mental strength to brush my teeth.

      Can you imagine? It doesn't even make sense to me. Being physically and emotionally drained by the simple act of preparing for the day. I stare at the bottle of HappyBrain™ pills next to the sink and usually have a four or six minute internal debate about if it's even worth it to keep taking these apparent placebos.

     Every single day I feel as though I'm wading into an unrelenting current. A torrent of melodramatic and extremely irrational disdain for living crashes ceaselessly against me in every step or action I take or attempt to take. There is no end to any of it. It is constant. It is infinite. It is sad. I am sad.

    ...I take that last bit back. I'm not sad. I'm emotionally numb, indifferent to everything. My brain won't shut off, it never shuts off, make it shut off. It's usually at this point that I find myself standing in the sun. Miraculously dressed and standing under the sky. It doesn't matter if it's overcast, raining, sunny, snowing. I take this moment to try and appreciate the beauty of the planet and life around me. Lately, nothing comes from this. I usually at this point ask God if he's still out there, if I could get sign from somewhere that this is worth enduring, a sign that would make this all worthwhile.

     I stare at my wrists all the time. I never buckle my seatbelt. I play it fast and loose with gravity and I don't respect the gut feeling of fight or flight. This isn't meant to sound melodramatic, it does, but I wish it didn't. It's the truth. I promised myself I'd be vulnerable in these words and here I am. Them's the bricks, it's what I fight with.

     Thousands of times a day I day dream about dying for something worthy. Giving this existence up to be remember in a harrowing act of heroism. Making something out of all this pain, something tangible, something real and lasting. I fabricate situations where I'd be caught in a gunfight with bankrobbers and I take a bullet for a little girl. I dream up scenarios that involve saving kittens from a fire.

     I want to stop feeling like I can be replaced by the next guy to come along with some equally rugged good looks and a cynical (ie: humorous) disposition towards things. I am, I am replaceable though, through and through. I at least want to see that this disposable life I have means something. I want to have my cake an eat it to. One last act of kindness or selflessness and simultaneously put this struggle to an end.

     I'm so tired, so very tired of swimming up these rapids. I guess I'll just keep hitting the proverbial snooze button until something changes or I finally break. I have to believe that the cosmos intends the former over the latter, there isn't another option.

(I continue to ramble, reek of melodrama, and become less coherent. I'm lonely, despite being surrounded by crowds of happy people.)

Scapegoating in June 2014

At many times in my life I've given up.

Recently giving up on writing was one of these times. Reading works of outlandishly great writing left me feeling rather short-staffed in my capabilities. So I gave up. It's easy to give up. How exciting is blogging about depression anyway!? A melancholy boy that just writes about how this "disease" has been running havoc in his life.

Another thing to give up, depression. I feel/felt that it has become an easy scapegoat for falling short in life ambitions or objectives. Escaping the challenges life throws my way is really easy when I can just point my finger at the elephant in the room and scream "depression did it!" I mean, you can't disprove it right? It's a big mean demon that is as omnipresent as it is invincible.

I constantly even wonder if I am mentally ill or if I'm just a lazy sack of shit that's blaming the easy target. There isn't an easy answer to any of this. It's sort of like the crazy man wondering if he's crazy. Then again, by who's standards are we measuring crazy? By who's definition of depression?

I blame this feeling, this constant feeling of inadequacy, idiocy, weakness because it's easy to do so. The more challenging slope I could climb would be that of owning up to my actions as a grown-ass man and accepting what fate I have wrought. I have all the mental faculties to overcome anything in my way, right? All men do. Time and time again throughout history we've heard tales and witnessed feats of astounding strength solely brought on upon by the human psyche. The fleshy piece of gray goop in our skulls is capable of actions far beyond measure. Yet, here I sit wallowing in self-doubt.

I see the signs, but still act the way I do.

I'm throwing a pity party for one. You can come if you want, but the punch is really salty and some asshole put Depeche Mode on repeat.

Melodramatic Demons

Is it possible to scribe any words
 in this day and age
 that ring not of melodrama and  woe-is-me ilk?

Is it not overplayed to quote any  poet
 in this state of affairs
 that doesn't sound trite and  conceited?


Lately, every time I get the urge to run my fingers across the keyboard in some fashion, I abruptly stop myself from doing so. There exists a little man in my head that stops me from forming these ragged strings of words. There is a little wheel that grinds to a halt upon striking the notion of adding to this blog...thing.

Ambivalence. At least from my understanding, is the word that describes what my head is brewing up.

I want to chronicle my thoughts and ideas. I want to be able to look back in the future and see what a terrible writer I was. Perhaps, in this possible future, I will consider myself a much stronger author. Regardless, I constantly stop myself from sharing the quotes and ideas that I find enlightening or fascinating.

Constant is the idea that I'm seething a putrid and pompous persona of myself. I feel as though I'm being melodramatic, all the time. What is this "black dog"? Do I even have a right to use the phrase? I want to characterize my demons and cast vivid imagery of these diabolic and metaphoric... things...

Do I appear as some beret-wearing, mascara-sporting, poetry-regurgitating beatnik of-a-sort? This there is no definite answer for. What's next for me, I think, is some somber form of interpretive dance or perhaps maybe some overworded, complicated, "artistic" monologue I act out naked on a stage.

It's art! I scream. Soak it in you thespians!

I don't think anyone really wants to watch me beat this long-dead horse anymore. Hell, even I'm growing tired of this trope. Part of me feels like I have more important ideas and concepts to try and elaborate on than those of people that just hashtag everything. Nothing gives me this right. I feel dirty and egotistical for thinking this way.

So here I sit, on my high horse.
I'm also beating the horse.
Understand that it's a high horse, but it's also dead.
I'm also forcing the horse to listen to my monologue about philosophy and a black dog.
Poor horse.

Do Dogs Have Uvulas?

Another spur of the moment blog thing. Also, dogs do not have uvulas.

I should learn by now.

I should learn not to place my happiness in other people. Feeling well enough as long as my foundations are stable. Foundations can't be built on the backs of friendships or romances, even the most resolute. The best of individuals will eventually let you down. Only human, we are all only human. The weight of our own lives is far too great to saddle the weight of others' lives in tandem.

I chronicle this. Once again I have allowed myself to build happiness on that of another person. I have no right to put my mood and battle on anyone else, willing or unwilling. Only in the shallow confines of this stupid blog do I find any rest from my own negative brain waves.


Life is/was going well.

Job I didn't mind, not great, but didn't mind.
Straight run of high marks in university, intro classes, but still.
New beautiful girl that seemed to be infatuated with me.
Friends, co-workers, customers, these relationships all seemingly going swimmingly.

Despite my best efforts to breathe worth into these ideas, concepts, I only find myself staring at the edge of a knife or a bottle of pills again. Why now? Why have I put my worth as a living specimen of humanity on someone else's scale? I toss my own measuring stick aside to use that of another.

So long have I been ahead of this monster... I let my guard down and now pay the price. The ferryman cometh and expects his token payment. Here I thought I had gotten away with a free ride, mistaken. Do not make light of your foe or underestimate your enemy. If this depression is my enemy, I was laughing in its face. I now understand that the thing doesn't take kindly to ridicule.

Enraged, it has caught back up with me. The Dog's maw howls agape as it mists foul-stenched breath against my face. I'm not sure what to do. It's this moment, this millisecond before the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, that drags on the longest. Do I run? Do I fight? Do I give up?

Probably not the latter, hoping.

I grow so tired, but can not sleep.
Punishment.
Punishment for harboring positive thought.
Positive thought that I had the Dog licked, put in its proper place.
Perhaps its proper place is firmly latched onto my gullet, my windpipe.

I feel as though I'm only whining. I'm bitching and moaning because I am desperately seeking some like-minded individual to trapse into my life with their own tumor of a dog on their neck.

"Hello stranger, nice black furry tumor you have there on your neck," they remark. "Does the pain become bearable?"

To which I reply, "No, unfortunately not, fellow person of depressive discontent. The beast's grip has not relaxed one iota as of yet."

I imagine I'm wearing a monocle during this interaction. This is probably the lack of sleep typing. I'm beginning to notice how I make little to no sense of any of this.

A Brief Thought On Duality; Jubilant Depression

The simple comfort of another soul, of simple social interaction can prevent a heinous action.

Reaching out isn't always easy; sometimes you just want to suffer in silence. Secretly, we hope for someone gifted with clairvoyance to realize that we require saving.Then again, are we even worth saving? Are you? Am I?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Perhaps it's a great scientific, insane, cosmic experiment. Some must suffer so that others can experience joy. If you believe in duality, and I'm not sure if I do, then it makes some semblance of sense.

Right?

If I, a lonesome sufferer of the charcoal-colored canine, am suffering in my current state... maybe someone on the other side of the world, the universe, is experiencing great joy. Maybe the sadness of one individual and subsequent jubilance of another is some supernatural balancing act by the forces unknown.

Perhaps the state of my mind does serve a greater purpose. Would I willingly endure torture if I knew that someone else was having the best day of their life thanks in some part to me? I'd think so. Thinking so brings some form of relief to the darkness that rips and tears at every corner of my being, my essence.

An interesting concept.

A sad sort of teeter totter.

Provable?

Nope.

No light without shadow.
No pain without pleasure.
No sense without nonsense.
Life. Death.
Happy. Sad.