Wasted Days

It’s been a few hours between drinks, but 630-odd days between blogs. During this time, I’ve learnt more about myself and others than I ever thought possible. I’ve drank, smoked and fucked with a fervour, a filth and a fury of which I’d only previously dreamed. I’ve spilt blood, sweat, tears and drinks, in search of meaning and in search of truth. I feel like a better man, more realised, whole and aware of myself than ever before, but a single thought still plagues me – I thought I would be more than this.

My search for enlightenment has led me to question my achievements and my success in life, my value as a person, and my contribution to the lives of others. What is achievement? What is success? Is it how much money I have in the bank? Is it being a good drinker? Is it being “good in bed”? Is it being a good conversationalist? Everyone wants their life and their existence to have purpose and meaning, but as long as you are happy, does it really matter if you’re really “making a difference” to the lives of others, or how others perceive you, or is that just all ego-driven and ego-boosting bullshit? Well, I’ll be honest, I’m not happy. I’m brimming with dissatisfaction, disaffection and unfocussed rage, feeling bored, whored, tired and ignored. I feel like I could – I should – be doing more with, giving more and getting more from the life I’ve been given. The jealous, petty, tempestuous, selfish only child in me causes me to crave more attention, love and adoration than I’m getting, and my ego feels disappointed that the vessel in which it is encased is not doing anything especially worthy of gaining such accolades from others on a consistent basis. I feel like a fertile and brilliant mind and body are going to waste while getting wasted, trapped in a repetitive cycle. It’s my own doing, yet knowing that doesn’t help me escape the trap.

Maybe I am successful. Maybe what I do is just “what I do”, and maybe I do it well, and should keep doing it. Maybe there is no material result or tangible end game to be achieved. Maybe it’s not all a video game, building from one level to the next. Maybe everything is just liquid, ebbing and flowing up and down, in and out like the tide, never actually meant to accumulate in size. Maybe this is all there is. Maybe everything is temporary, never permanent.

Maybe I just don’t know. Maybe my search has only just begun.

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