I woke up one morning and realized my entire life’s a farce.
Why have I been doing shit I don’t like doing for so long?
(It’s not really relevant what, because we both know there always is something.)
The agony of my illumination, the familiar pain of having missed out on something so obvious was sedated by the ecstasy I felt at the level of my self-awareness — Is it just me or does everyone love to paint their self-hatred the color of nirvana? — before falling into the bottomlessness that was remembering I have had this realization before.
Epiphanies used to be the diagnosis of regret, the kismet cousin of a life you could be living.
Now, they are to a better life what the twelve-step program is to an alcoholic: a spiritual oil-change in the black breakdown of your consciousness.
I used to like books in proportion to the number of epiphanies I had reading them. I was collecting epiphanies and burying them like they were acorns before a frost. And like a shitty squirrel, I’d forget where I buried them. I was always tired: I never had the time to eat because I had acorns to find.
Sounds like your life?
Your seriousness is a winter of tomorrows. The purpose of your life is a ruse. You arrive at it by convincing yourself what you are doing is important instead of asking yourself what it is you’d actually like to do. Busy is your sustenance, your distraction against asking yourself the most obvious question, because it means exhausting your excuses, and peeking into the collection of your regrets.
It’s not accidental epiphanies used to happen in the most ordinary moments. Not anymore. Our century’s psychological syphilis is making the time to do nothing.
What should have felt like a miracle that morning turned out to be a vindication for what I had done all along, and instead of changing what I did, I found another reason to measure myself by everything I could be while rating everyone else by who they were.