Sometimes I believe that my strategy has pre-announced itself as a course for this life of mine. Announced and been forgotten and breezed by my comprehension while in plain sight. A ghostly vision of the wind that leaves a rustle unseen in its wake across my vision.
This strategy was thrust upon me but I never had the opportunity to clear it or deny it or prepare for it.
It would be great if I could consciously allude to the strategy that guides me with the acknowledgement that it was ordained and the set of rules/laws that would steer each day and my every move.
But I can only sit back and examine 50 years in ambivalent retrospect and assume that I must now capture this legacy and assume it as my own, and draw the bulls-eye around this flatulent life’s arrow that has brought me to this point. I would have appreciated some notice. But none. Now I am left to piece this mess, this morass, together, to assemble the puzzle, that I’m not sure is even intact, and make sense of my existence in order to lend it meaning and predictability, and perhaps if I’m not being too greedy, the semblance of structure. The greatest shame is to have a revelation after it’s too late to shun it.
I think I’ve taken all the misery, dejection, failure, and abject horror that his life can possibly offer and impossibly taken it upon myself to experience it all fully as of the Now, but in the process, have diluted it with the span of time that comprises my life, in effect, spacing out the pure shit life has to offer and strategically spreading it over all my days as I would a knife-scoop of butter over a piece of newly toasted bread. Whereas most normal’s don’t experience such unpleasantness until it happens, whatever and whenever that distant, invisible, dreadful moment in their life is, I made a deal whereby the full load of life’s harshest offerings would be handed me in one lump sum, but for the sake of sanity, I was allowed to finance this misery over an aged span of years, many years (well…as many as my life will allow). This left a carefully graduated sense of despair that would visit me on a continual basis, a minimal measure IV drip which, multiplied over my life, sums all the pain I will ever experience, but which, injected daily merely results in a consistently morose, vaguely unhappy, steady march toward ultimate culmination of death and extinguishing of the misery payment contract I signed up for.
I never experience vivid displays of pleasure or joy. The other day I had a conversation with a woman who told me she has cried from pure happiness at times in her life. I stared at her blankly. I could not relate. I told her this. I couldn’t comprehend that. I have never cried from joy, nor do I foresee the day I ever can. I never experience such unbridled happiness to the degree that it possesses my soul.
This is because my misery payment contract is in place and it is a lifetime agreement. I traded in happiness for a series of measured and soiled spurts of downsized, weakened agony.
It’s a win-win!