This is All Fucking Stupid

No, it isn’t. In a way it is, but in a way it isn’t. (…) You know, there are times I can appreciate at least trying to be more literary in my thinking than not. Not that it helps much for all things practical; ever since I had a bad introspective epiphany when I was on the border of turning 30 and realizing the effort, or trials and error and tribulations and all that “trying” as some sort of ontological defeatism, well… I don’t think things like that for me have even changed all that much from the mindset I developed in my early twenties — obsessed with trying to find meaning for everything and convinced I had an answer. Spent a lot of time alone as one probably will at some point in life, of course. In my case for that to have occurred in my early twenties planted the seeds too deeply of the fear of ageing or, perhaps, having this sense of impending doom for absolutely no good reason other than it serving as an outdated cognitive function of the human condition. Namely, not knowing with ever enough certainty that you will live another day without something bad happening and awaiting that change in a way that is crippling and leeches out any joy that could be had by making the most of the moment instead of dwelling on future uncertainties.

Having something bad happen and not even knowing until either it is too late or urgent in such a way that it carries such a deep sense of dread at that precise moment. Worrying about these little pangs of discomfort or occasional dull pains and inflammation in my body makes me sensitive in that aforementioned way.

Ah, I’ll make a second part to this tomorrow because I don’t feel like paraphrasing my thoughts anymore. Definitely probably wrote that somewhere here before 4.