Waste

It's so strange and familiar; this feeling. The feeling of being busy, consumed with work and meeting friends, going to events, and planning for others. The feeling of a "good" tired because you were productive and the feeling of worthiness because you made someone else's day. But at some time you sit down and catch up with yourself. You begin to reflect and evaluate. You come to the conclusion that everything was meaningless. You feel empty.

You've done so much, but you haven't moved from where you were last time. You've caught up with people telling them what you've been doing, how things are going and what things you're getting ready for. You've update some, briefly, on how things at home have improved, how the relationship with your ex is finally reaching its closure, how the passing of your mom has been more of a healing process, and how your addictions are slowly attenuating. You're driving home or you simple at home and the conversations throughout the day play in your mind. You begin to examine how effective your tone of voice, the muscles in your face, the placing of your arms added to the exaggerations. When you're alone you know the realities of the situation at home, you remember the heart wrenching hour long conversation with your ex, the next morning you wake up crying and calling out for mom, only to turn to your addictions at the end of the day.

Where is the way out in all of this?

If only there was a way where you come home feeling exhausted and content with the things you've done, without really realizing what it is you have done. In essence, allowing yourself to believe yourself through the exaggerations; becoming one with the mask.

I want the world to stop, but it doesn't. It will go on and on regardless of whether you failed an exam, or broke up with your girlfriend, or find out your brother is terminal, or whether you die. The world has no mercy. It will continue with or without you and yet we spend so much time if not all of our lives sacrificing for it and the social structures generations before us have placed.


So I hated life, because the work that is done under the sun was grievous to me. All of it is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.