hyenahell

flu's going around. rhys is laid up with it. i'm taking vitamins and what not to try and fight it off, but i can feel myself getting sick. which means i'll probably be full-blown by the time i have to work this weekend. lovely. yes...

not to be all negative and naysaying. but that's kind of my mood. just angry at everything. no reason, really. you can always trace it back to being angry at yourself, i've found. so it's pointless. you either do something to change the heart of the matter, or.

you do nothing.

because the time is never right for it. whatever you want to do, or say, or be. there's always a putting off. tomorrow. and tomorrow. it goes on, and on. and you're waiting for your cue, and it never comes.

this is the stuff that long-suffering housewives and soft-spoken, down-trodden accountants are made of. hell, this is what the american dream has dissolved into. this is what keeps most folk from taking control. it's not that we're spineless, or don't know how to stick up for ourselves; it's not that we don't have dreams, hopes, aspirations; it's not that we don't know who we are, and that who we are cannot possibly thrive in this dull fucking grind. we're just waiting for the right moment to take what is ours.

and it never comes. you get old. weighed down. you forget. and then you die.

and there's a secret knowledge of this. you're in collusion with it. you lie to yourself and say that it's gotten so bad, you're so frustrated and beaten down that something's got to give. a catalyst, and then things are going to change. yeah...

but the human tendancy towards self-induced suffering is amazingly resilliant. you take comfort in your suffering, and take pleasure in being able to feel sorry for yourself. everybody's got a martyr complex. it somehow gives the sense of righteousness to one's humiliation. makes it seem alright, because, after all, you're planning your escape.

and the lucky ones go mad. they toss off their responsibility. they don't have to make anything happen, they don't have to deal with the consequences, because, after all, something happened to them. something changed them, and took away their ability to do such. they don't have to fight anymore, because they've already lost. and there's a beautiful kind of defeat for you- knowing it's out of your hands.

but we'll never go mad. no, we've invested too much into this crap-shoot of a life. it's simply not worth the effort. and trust me. the food, in madhouses- fucking terrible.

it's so easy to do nothing. it's easy to be miserable. the path of least resistance, as they say. and you can smile, smug, thinking you're going to break away. get out of the rut. you can say, hell, maybe for you, but that's not my fate.

good. so what are you waiting for? what's keeping you? go on... tell your boss to fuck off, kick your girlfriend out of the house, sell all your shit and move to tibet to take pictures of mountains and monks and... yaks. or whatever. but. you won't. i won't. we won't.

it's pathetic.

it's human.

there's a reason not everybody gets into the history books.

does this mean i've given up? no, i'm lying to myself even as i'm thinking this. it's a black mood, that's all. and when i get over it, when i get stronger, i'm going to make some fucking changes around here.

something's got to give.

yeah...

i'll let you know how that works out.