Congrats on the new gig.
It sounds as if your recent health scare may have opened new perspectives for you, and that’s good. It also has you ruminating on your own mortality, naturally.
Have you ever wondered what would happen if you got locked into one oppressive perspective indefinitely?
Can you imagine someone that fears survival considerably more than he fears death?
Rhetorical queries, of course, designed to give some idea of the state of dull anhedonia in which I currently reside.
I don’t wish to start any new chapters. I don’t deign to imagine that my life has any purpose or that I have any legacy to fulfill. I’m not particularly sad or upset or desperate – just terminally jaded and absolutely disinterested in the pointless perpetual peregrinations of my own species. I can’t imagine starting a new career or a new romance or even a new hobby. Those are things in which people with a zest for life or a sense or purpose engage.
In fact, if I do manage to survive for another month or two, which I probably will, I shall have no choice but to embark upon a new chapter called homelessness. Somehow I don’t find myself very worried about this. Quoth the Retard: “It is what it is.”
I don’t talk to people anymore because I’ve almost forgotten how. Perhaps losing my ability to communicate completely can constitute some sort of a goal. Everyone’s gotta have a goal, right?
Hey, look, here’s a cute kitty: