12122022

I fear that I have let the past few days overwhelm my senses too thoroughly. I must remember that a person cannot live animated by electrical fervour for long. Perhaps I was mistaken in my happiness. No, that’s not it… I wasn’t mistaken, but more likely, misguided. I think that I have, in certain ways, made a farce of my feelings.

Moreover, every day, I grow to resent my work more and more. I find myself frequently astounded by how insipid and uninspired it all feels. The only part of this project to which I’m looking forward is its end. I keep telling myself that it’s only a handful of months left, that once it’s over, I’ll finally be free. 

But even in this sense, I’m being dishonest with myself. It’s not my work I hate, or even this particular game; but the pathetic, arrogant cowardice with which I live my life. I hate the speed and easiness with which, despite having felt so flush with such certain and intimate joy, I have allowed myself to slip back into this familiar, repulsive worthlessness. I hate the listlessness that descends like a heaving miasma over my days, suffocating out any sense of responsibility or will towards something greater than the assuaging of my immediate psychic pains. And I hate most of all the jealousy that percolates within my chest and rises on occasion with the nausea in my throat. What right do I of all people have to it? 

How disgusting, the lot of it.