There is no anesthesia for lovelessness. Sometimes after the dishes, my cat asleep and in a better world, the sudden realization — however perennial, always profound — that I’m utterly alone takes over me. This is when I usually reach for the wine, or drugs, or ice cream, but Mr. Zen himself has requested that I let myself have my feelings, to notice them, without judgment, without commentary, to be “present,” but whatever depth might be expected to arise is abutted by the shallow vapidity of the kind of person I’ve meandered into. There’s nothing inside. I just want to drink, or die.
I’m told that suicide ideation is basically avoidance, a lazy person’s favorite narrative, starring them, of not having to live their lives. Suicide, or even self-harm, takes a certain kind of admirable conviction. A slacker at heart, I find some gorgeously sad piano sonatas while lying on the couch more attuned to my sensibilities. Unfortunately, I’m in the fairest of health, which means I’ve been sentenced to life inside my own. I resent my real relationships and pine for strangers. I leave parties early without saying goodbye. I blog. Maybe I’m just an asshole. A few days later it fought its way out, so big I took it as inverse sodomy, and have since been waiting to be called back.
For a man who dreads his own mortality yet, simplistically, kind of wants to die, may he deserve the ingrown misery of his mind. The hunt for Self may be a shallow spiral. When the serpent finally catches its tail, it will know true boredom.