[445] Bad Explanation

I remember the day that it happened.

I was walking around the Lake County Fair, and I passed a booth with necklaces and rings. I literally stopped in my tracks. The symbol “spoke to me” as any kind of mythical higher being tome is supposed to when you're writing about it. The yin yang. The black and white. The balance.

I feel like I've been fighting a very weird battle. Like I'm supposed to be struggling towards some sort of purpose or goal. Like, the very fact of my existence is supposed to speak to something “more” than who I am or what I was born into. It's terrifying. I'm unbelievably scared that I was born to a kind of expectation. Like I'm supposed to figure something out before I die or I've done something wrong. Like I've been given all the resources, and been born into an age of the best circumstances anyone could ask for, and all I did was pop experimental pills for money and rode it out until I died.

I consider my worst character trait to be actually believing in shit. I think tomorrow can be different. I hold a candle for friends who haven't talked to me in years. I don't have a conception of history on some sort of positivist determined path where we'll all be where we're supposed to be in the future. I think it can change. I think it can change now.

I don't believe in purpose. I don't believe in fate. I barely believe in “trying.” I think you observe the world you want and you observe the world you're due.

I already know I'm going to die full of regret. It's not going to be because I didn't accomplish something I knew I could have. It's not going to be because I wasn't brave or didn't voice my feelings. I'm going to die of regret because I never figured out how to get you on board. I never figured out how to translate; how to fix the communication problem. I'm going to need another trillion to the trillionth power rounds of practice before I see in you what I barely understand but believe in in myself.

It's just hard being alone in theory. You get it. You know what little things you can do. But I don't have a mechanism in place that validates the idea you have license. I get to watch. I get to drunkenly stumble about the words “endlessly zeroing in” on some conception that's been both figured out and played out infinitely before I got around to shitting all over it.

That's enough. Fuck me, at least I said something.