mahiwaga

Despite my best efforts, hours completely evaporate like fog burning in the morning sun. It doesn't look like I'm ever going to catch up with anything that has left me much too far behind. Love, money. Hell, even sleep, health.

Everything always slowly falls apart. It is rare that complete meltdowns, spectacular collapses occur.

What I need is some sunshine, a warm beach, a guitar, and a bottle of tequila.

But then again, when was the last time I actually ever got what I wanted, without any catches or strings attached?

Bitter is an understatement.

One must blog with caution at 1 am in the morning. All sorts of weird thoughts spring up, things that I haven't had time to ponder. I can't help but wonder what kind of life I'm leading where it is a struggle to even get everything off of the floor. I feel too much like Sisyphus these days, rolling, rolling, rolling that stupid stone up the goddamn hill.

The main problem is that it really does never get any easier.

All the while time has its way with me.

Am I ever going to fucking learn, or am I just doomed to go headlong into the abyss, never doing anything more effective than cursing fate to the horrific end?

It's a dirty trick, is all. There is no destination. The end is the moment you stop breathing.

There's a reason why it's all about the journey, you know.

Everyone's final destination is pretty much Earth, elevation -6 feet.

So it was probably a mistake to stop taking those anti-depressants. Sure, they weren't really working, but, surprise, surprise, it turns out that unfiltered, unfettered reality is a hell of a lot worse than even my dark imaginings.

(NOTE: this is not a cry for help. I've tread this fine line between ideation and action for quite a few years, and it'll take more than a few deep dark thoughts to make me go over.)

But I can't help ponder the fact that my ancestors pretty much invented going postal. Do you know what running amok means? It's basically the Southeast Asian form of suicide, kind of like the intellectual opposite of sepukku. Whereas the Japanese form is all about offing one's self with the most minimal impact to other's sensibilities of honor and cleanliness, the Southeast Asian form is, to put it bluntly, about taking out as many bastards as you can before going down yourself. Things like this can never turn out well.

Neuropsychologist Steven Pinker talks about a built-in doomsday machine inside each one of us. Somewhere within the neural circuitry is a kind of self-destruct mechanism. This is the emotion of grief, and when someone pushes the shiny red button, the nuclear aftermath is known as depression. What is interesting is how this self-destruct mechanism varies culturally.

The Western method invariably involves pharmacological agents or firearms. The Southeast Asian method involves getting out your bolo knife, strapping on some leather armor, and going to town.

Anyway, as you'll notice, I'm going in circles here. I don't know if its the hour, or if I've simply had too much to drink today, but I figure there's nothing positive that can be wrung out of this entry today. We'll try again tomorrow. Yeah. Maybe.

This sucks.