I wrote this on May 14. Never got around to publish it until today. Many things have happened since. So here it is raw as I wrote it. I remember I was interrupted by an acquaintance deciding to pay me a visit. I didn't want to come back and read it for a long time, because the hurt was still too raw.
Here it is.
It never ceases to amaze me how reluctant are people to make their life better because of their ego. How fast they fall into mediocrity because they aren't able to fight for a better life. Not only that, they actually fight the change for the good. They fight it, they reject it, they despise it. If they'd put the same passion into the change for the good, they'd be so far better than they are. But their ego wouldn't be stroked until much, much later and after they'd put a lot of work into it.
Anyway. Finding myself alone again got me back into that nagging feeling that this isn't the right world. The right reality for me. When I was in the relationship with J. the feeling was dampened by the happiness (yes, he did make me happy for a couple of years) and then by the efforts to understand what was going on with him. But now I'm back. The feeling is very weird and very obscure. It's not just about the fact that I find myself even worse than I was before him, in terms of health and income, and of course, 4 1/2 years older. No. It isn't like I should be better looking, with a better income, or doing something else, like promoting my art or my webdesign skills, or having a family and kids, or you name it. No. It's like the very fabric of reality is wrong. The Earth, the sky, the society, everything. Like I shouldn't be here but somewhere else. I had this feeling before, and I think it belongs in the old question "why?" that plagued my youth. The existentialist "why? Why do we exist? Why does the Universe exist?" I was plagued with that when I was around 20 - maybe a great part of it was induced by the fact that I was reading a lot of philosophy, from the ancient Vedes and Greek philosophers to Schopenhauer, Nietzsche and Kant. That was the time when I really fell into a very deep depression. Practically the only time in my life. I remember my father trying to help me, and when I shot my questions to him, he put his hands in his pockets, went to the open window and stared outside for what seemed like an eternity. Then he just turned, looked at me with tears in his eyes and left the room. That was when I understood that behind the man who was an esteemed professor, with a successful career, a beautiful house, a beautiful wife and beautiful children, it was not the plain addiction that made him drink. Yes, my father was an alcoholic. But I understood then why he was drinking. That was his answer to those questions. Actually his lack of answer. The refuge of not having to think to those questions that never will be answered. And that is when I snapped out of my depression. I realized that I have to find a way to go on without looking for the refuge of the coward. Yes, that was also the time when I lost the respect I had for my father. It was hard, and I didn't love him less, because when we really love someone we love them no matter their faults. But I couldn't respect someone who had chosen the way of the coward.
In time I dealt with not thinking of those questions by creating things. And also by throwing myself in a world of partying and traveling and just "having a good ole time". And even if the crowd I was partying with was very educated and very intelligent - think that every party would end up with us sitting on the floor in a circle, each with their drinks, discussing philosophy, literature, history, you name it - I still felt alone, and my feeble attempts to try and see if others ever were bothered by this were in vain.
