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a secret magic past world

September 29, 2015

There is a part of me that really dislikes success.

I know we are all raised to fear failure and what-not, but I have never been over averse to it; with failure, you have a place to start again once you’ve picked the old self up and brushed it off.

Success leaves a vacuum. Success leaves a gaping hole where purpose used to be. Success means you have to think of something new to do, just when your brain was getting the hang of that last thing. Success is a pain in the damn ass, especially in a world where it is not recognized with stickers of any shape or metallic quality, or candy of any kind. Success is such sweet sorrow.

I know I sound like a total Eeyore (also possibly like I am disguising boastfulness under a mantle of gloom) but I have never been good at holding onto a sense of purpose. Work goals have always been a nice way of ballasting myself through the overall pointlessness of life, and any chapter’s end is always accompanied by a heavy increase in nihilism. Add to this the fact that I am no longer pursuing any school goals of any kind, other than to pass a yoga 101 class, and you basically have me drifting in the doldrums, wondering what I’m supposed to be doing with this, my one existence.

It’s obnoxious that the only answers are ‘find something new to do’ or ‘distract yourself.’ It’s just never going to be that kind of life where the stuff to do rolls up on a silver platter and then you hero all over that shit. At this point it appears that I am never going to be over that. No wonder we as a species are so great at doing what we’re told; we’re built to crave external direction and prompting, just like we’re built to crave freedom of action and independence of thought. What ridiculous exercises in contradiction we all are. What a lovely and devilish thing it is to be a human.

squash blossom

I am

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