s00ngone
All you can feel is the weather
- Mar 21, 2025
- 66
I keep reviewing my life, my recent past, the pretty steady and not at all unpredictable spiral into despair that things have been - all juxtaposed with the normal, incessant, plodding pace of life.
Someone posted recently about finding some comfort in knowing that life will go on without you. As truly distraught as I (ought to) feel (because I'm too disconnected or numb or empty inside anymore to really feel it) about the trauma my ctb will inevitably inflict, this does comfort me. From here until utopia or the collapse of civilization or a world my sister can thrive in but for her own brief time on the planet, or maybe just until the sun explodes, I'll be free. To rest. Never to have to lift a finger in my own interest, because I just don't care enough besides the fear and the pain I'll cause my loved ones.
I think about the "normal" people I've met in my life and how unlike them I am. I don't despise myself, outright - not like I used to, anyway. I don't think I'm all that disgusting or unlikeable or that I even deserve to die. It's just such a profound disinterest in living, in any possible source of joy or satisfaction or investment or effort or whatever could satisfy a typical person's life.
I never really had hobbies. I could never get past the barriers to entry: a) feeling like I never had time growing up to develop any because I always, always had too much missing work due to my mismanaged time - over the years it felt like a great occasion when I could make time to do anything I enjoyed - and b) an insecurity and what's-the-point-ism that made practicing feel futile. What would it matter if I did things I love if someone's already doing it better? What a frivolous waste of time when I'm already wasting so much.
To think of art and music, dance and theater, sports and exercise, all our human endeavors as merely wastes of time prolonging the inevitable hurts. It stings. I don't want to be so sour and joyless. But I can't see it any other way in my post-spiritual dissociation. To be human at all is a chore to me now, if it wasn't already before.
It pains me. I try to imagine alternate timelines. But I feel like such an awful person when I look back at something like the brief relationship I had in the middle of all the delusion and the only thing that rouses me is the sex, despite how loving he was.
He didn't know me. I never knew myself. I'm barely a husk anymore.
Someone posted recently about finding some comfort in knowing that life will go on without you. As truly distraught as I (ought to) feel (because I'm too disconnected or numb or empty inside anymore to really feel it) about the trauma my ctb will inevitably inflict, this does comfort me. From here until utopia or the collapse of civilization or a world my sister can thrive in but for her own brief time on the planet, or maybe just until the sun explodes, I'll be free. To rest. Never to have to lift a finger in my own interest, because I just don't care enough besides the fear and the pain I'll cause my loved ones.
I think about the "normal" people I've met in my life and how unlike them I am. I don't despise myself, outright - not like I used to, anyway. I don't think I'm all that disgusting or unlikeable or that I even deserve to die. It's just such a profound disinterest in living, in any possible source of joy or satisfaction or investment or effort or whatever could satisfy a typical person's life.
I never really had hobbies. I could never get past the barriers to entry: a) feeling like I never had time growing up to develop any because I always, always had too much missing work due to my mismanaged time - over the years it felt like a great occasion when I could make time to do anything I enjoyed - and b) an insecurity and what's-the-point-ism that made practicing feel futile. What would it matter if I did things I love if someone's already doing it better? What a frivolous waste of time when I'm already wasting so much.
To think of art and music, dance and theater, sports and exercise, all our human endeavors as merely wastes of time prolonging the inevitable hurts. It stings. I don't want to be so sour and joyless. But I can't see it any other way in my post-spiritual dissociation. To be human at all is a chore to me now, if it wasn't already before.
It pains me. I try to imagine alternate timelines. But I feel like such an awful person when I look back at something like the brief relationship I had in the middle of all the delusion and the only thing that rouses me is the sex, despite how loving he was.
He didn't know me. I never knew myself. I'm barely a husk anymore.
