Just I

I've been thinking about fairness. Those who have friends or family who've died young saying awful things to figurative entities, asking unanswerable questions like why, and in the end the outcome favors no one. Death is not just inevitable but the end to life. That is the one thing we know from a young age will happen, yet denial forms such an integral part of our lives until, when later in years, a particular maturity takes place in the brain where we begin to understand our fragility. Thinking of fairness because I don't remember a time when I didn't wish for my death.

The peril of life is endless, such as is breathing or thinking, but as with death, we give it not a moment's time to evolve until we have matured; and yet there are those who never reach the thought. The ways in which our brains evolve is so mysterious. With a world of 8 billion inhabitants (or close to it) all we can say is that there are similarities in structure and place where autonomous and guided actions begin their journey. Where does the journey of my endless depression begin? Is it simply a serotonin deficiency, or could there be some other culprit involved.

I don't care. My psychiatrist writes it all down, looks at me, asks and evaluates little, in my estimation and the result is... this I sat here to convey my sorrowful, empty, and banal state to an empty page. On the other hand, the psychologist I see, whom continues to shower me with sense and purpose, not just empty how-do-you-dos only seems to be scratching the surfaces' top layer; where any surface would have a coating or laminate, then some sort of film, under the material that holds it together, and so on.

What about my family? For one, it's easy to blame others instead of introspectively analyzing the various things that could lead to any one thing. They are okay. Since this is not about them, I will not go into detail. I am afforded my own space, they share their thoughts and feelings with me, and in turn, I do chores. So menial it all becomes, the routine to wake up and brush your teeth, or having to wash the dishes, putting the clothes to wash and dry, eat, sleep, love, engage in forms of affection, relax, detox, be cordial, behave, and so on. Day in and day out, nothing but the same.

When I meditate, there is so much within the mindlessness that also feels menial. Usually, my meditation takes place in the shower, lying on the bathtub. There is the sound of the extractor going about above me, the sound of the water running up the tube behind the wall before being released, the sound of water hitting my body, the draining whirlpool sounds as it all vanishes into darkness, and the sound of white noise as the water hits my skin... all the same, every day.

Again, I sit demurred of living in contemplation of what it means, or the chores it encompasses. To say I live free is to accept the ignorance of my intellectual state and at face value feel that the congruence of it all somehow is meant to excite and not depress. Yet, I ponder on pioneer discoveries and their suffering to obtain it. I am no pioneer, but is there some hidden purpose I haven't found? Is all this... pondering in helpless hope the preceding moment of discovery? 

My eyes aren't really open to possibility. I see things, but I dare not look further than their intended state. While I would be able to assist in things of this or that nature, nothing else feels probable presently. I decay into the madness of depression with a dunce cap and a glorious cape with the word useless on it. The barren space through which I endlessly fall, in mocking parade line to see the buffoon who fails to live, fails at dying, and ever so slowly inches toward death in a most expected of ways. Nothing new to see here folks, just an empty carcass with the ability to put some words to paper. 

What does it all mean? Nothing.

Why am I here? Two people engaged in an act of intercourse.

Where should I be? Nowhere. Here. There.

When do I know if I am right? Never.

Which thought should I harness? Depression being the strongest, that one.

Whom is to blame? Just I.