Desires for less and more jostle under my consciousness. I can't settle. I'm chasing an ever-elusive "enough", but am always swamped or somehow lacking. The thought of this perfect life, shaved of excess, weighs on me. My things totaled fill me with guilt, I'm ashamed of my consumption and the ease of my existence. Privilege is not merit based, we cannot buy "content"* and maybe happiness only exists in retrospect. The earth is on the brink of implosion but, with varying degrees of drama and self-importance, we've been saying that since time began—Apocalyptic Literature—I studied it. To justify our existence in the Universe we have to exaggerate our impact, if only to ourselves. Maybe we could save the World? Maybe someone... something?
The two best things that I have ever done ripped away parts of me. I am not stronger, but smaller and more twisted now. With the first, helpless as a spider fighting the drag of the plughole, I lost my childish bravery. The second was drawn out and painful, masked in so many layers of bravado that I hadn't even noticed the splintering cracks. When I finally peered underneath, quite a lot had trickled through and I had nothing left to give.
Maybe it is all just nostalgia and there is nothing to be done to save the World; it has always been filled with cruelty, pain and destruction.
The Universe will continue without us.
*As in satisfied, not the other "content". English is ridiculous.