sartre du soleil

my days often end with me feeling dejectedly detached from the world as i toss and turn on the mattress on my bedroom floor trying to find that one spot that i feel most comfortable

i never find it

and instead i fall asleep tiring myself out from trying to find that one spot i can finally be at peace

now i'm well aware that there could be some people in my social circle that have started following this blog for whatever random reason, and that they may find it alarming that i keep these thoughts from them while i portray in our actual physical interaction that i have a semblance of having my shit together. now while i appreciate the concern, it means nothing when at the end of the day i still secretly wish i don't have to wake up the next day. so i find it best to keep the status quo of me being the confidant and never being the confider, because let's face it, all we really want to do is to talk about ourselves. i find that i get my fix of self-indulgent personal narratives by writing through this blog. and i don't necessarily look for a reaction, validation, nor commiseration from whatever i have to say because i'm tired of hearing "i don't know what to say" or "i'm just here if you need anything" - it's empty, and it's no different from what i've been feeling all along.

people are more than welcome to try to make a difference. i'm in the business of making a difference, let's see you outdo me, let's see you lose your sense of self more than i have done already, let's see you endure this exasperating endeavor.

i will admit. it's pretty damn lonely. i have people around me, some i love, some i could care less about, some i admire, some i pity, but generally they all don't feel real to me. not that i'm questioning their genuineness towards me, there's probably a bit of that - it's a given - but it's more about reconciling the thought whether i deserve all of this. having people actually want to spend time with me, i feel, is still surreal. i know i've been doing good for others, or at least doing things that they claim will make them happy - that much perhaps some good ought to return to me, but i don't feel deserving of any of it.

yeah sure, i can be happy. i will smile like a mischievous kid, i will laugh like a retarded goat, or i will pump my fist like a middle aged golfer. but i'm not sure whether that's what's actually good for me.

so perhaps while i figure out whatever ought to be good for me, i will keep doing for others what they know is good for them. because if i can't even find something as simple as the most comfortable sleeping position, then the meaning of life?

i may never find it.

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