Sing in me, Sartre, and through me, of the nauseating angst. Did you know that book was supposed to be called Melancholy? Nicotine withdrawal on day seven is bringing symptoms like sadness, lack of enthusiasm, and that famous melancholy for something past or for something futuristically improbable. Perhaps it was that damned, cancerous after-dinner cigarette that gave me the will to live — even if it came with a sore throat — otherwise known as serotonin. I’m forced to transform my vices into something creative just to avoid dying of sadness on that dingy couch, while I struggle to chew yet another nicotine gum, a stupid palliative for my misery. Maybe this is what Troisi meant when he said, “at least singers make money from their sadness through their songs,” or maybe it was about heartbreak? What’s troubling you today, little 27-year-old?
You know, I live with constant anxiety and anguish. I got a second chocolate bar as a gift at the supermarket with my first purchase. So, five minutes ago I was wallowing in my sadness, which takes the shape of an armadillo curling up and rolling around, tearing up your favorite rug and bringing a desert wind with it. My job title for the profession of living is still “junior,” and it’s poorly paid. It feels like this eternal return only works in the negative; the past that lashes out and slaps you around. A mess of emotions that, when I think about it, brings shame. Shame, green and purple, slimy and stagnant, sitting there to remind me that emotional management isn’t exactly my strong suit. Screaming, yelling, and freaking out. But hey, I puff up like a cat when someone confesses the same to me.
I always feel like I’m wearing a helmet and shield, out in the cold of night, when it comes to this profession. A battle lost from the start, everyone knows that. Is it worth taking all the hits and training to be a winner if you lose by default in the end anyway? Three or four training sessions a week, Facebook-worthy motivational quotes, and then the warrior crumbles and eats all the peanut butter in the pantry, losing their abs. It takes so little to lose balance. But you get back up every time, don’t you? Almost like Sisyphus with his boulder, but the warrior isn’t happy to repeat everything over and over. Maybe martial arts 101 isn’t for me. I try to calm myself with the Zen thoughts of a Shaolin master, and it works for a while — until the next round.
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Hallucinated Diary
Short StoryIntrospective prose, stream of consciousness, or personal diary. You can call it as you want.
