My homeostatic functions have collapsed catastrophically at 5am. I am cold and yet I am burning. The fan drones on a croaking clockwork in the gusts of frigid wind but I am coated in the stench of perspiration. Wet with the churning, nausea of nightmare.
It is the same nightmare. It has always been the same nightmare every night. The same pockets of imagery and absurdity that comes to the fore every time my insomnia recedes. Fire ants of red crawling on my hairs, they don’t bite, they don’t hurt, they merely threaten by virtue of existence. I am a claustrophobe, naked in a rusty, algae-stained shower cubicle the size of a coffin. A caterpillar more wrinkled than phallic crawls and survives along the straight edge of the pillow.
This has been the third night I’ve gone to sleep in a drunken stupor. When I am not inebriated, I am an insomniac. When I am inebriated, I am schizoid. I can’t hear the dashes of conversation of the girl sitting across the bar. I serve her drinks, with the caustic liquids spilling over the brims with my parkinson-ed hands. I can’t even see the bus numbers when my shift ends. I have my spectacles on but my myopia has transcended even that.
I am a cynic. I live in perpetual and uncompromising anomie. I have no faith, no love, no emotion, no hope for my future, no optimism for humanity or any political process, nor regard for what I will be. I simply do not have the capacity.
I believe there is a threshold age by which if you do not display indications of greatness, or otherwise, have accomplished things that are precursor to greatness, you will never be destined for greatness. You will not be great, you will not be granted grandiosity, not even a footnote in a history book. Your death will be as light as feather, your life even lighter.
I am rapidly approaching that threshold, with nothing to show. Destined for mediocrity and fated to be of little quality, far in face of a twisted upbringing and ignominious personal narcissism that has promised nothing short of greatness.
I don’t think I will ever be satisfied with life. I’ll always find inauthenticity and artificiality in whatever I have and whatever I have achieved. In the same vein, with or without religion, with or without love, with or without ever finding meaning, I doubt I will ever be truly happy in life. What the hell is “truly happy” even supposed to mean?