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I suppose I gave up far before I realized I had. This lag had the intended effect, once again locking me into the familiar cycle. How many times has it been? It’s familiar. I already know how to fix everything, and it’s not certain it's too late but I’ve already recognized in the first few sentences that it was too late. There’s no way to reverse it, one way to accept it, and one way to avoid everything after. I live with the privilege to be able to experience this every year without consequence, sometimes even multiple times a year to various degrees. It’s a wonderfully addictive feeling, leading me to conclude with little surprise or vigor that I must be consciously placing myself into this position again and again. The only rational (terrible term, and lacking local definition to this writing) reason I can conclude of my actions is that they were purposeful with the aim to place me here, as I have acknowledged this to be my natural (terrible term, refer back) position.
But this wonderful feeling, it has taken too great a toll on my body. I wake up every morning unable to move, covered in sweat and shaking uncontrollably. I commute with cloudy and unfocused vision. Hair comes out in clumps. There’s little else other than shaking. There’s shaking. Sleep never comes. Joy has such a high price. Pure, unmatchable enjoyment (note the joy in there) cannot be measured in its side-effects, at least in the area of analysis prior to action. I will rot myself senseless until the joy is no longer attainable. However, such a fate seems unknowable, and therefore incalculable to myself (this warrants a response).
I had a dream a long while ago. I was in a large dark building filled with child-like decorations, like a theme park area crossed into a massive single-floor hotel. I ran around for hours with no direction, meeting unknowable people who never responded to me. My motivations changed each time I questioned why I was running, each scenario inhabiting the highest position of reasonability in its moment each time. And when my eyes opened, and I was no longer there, my mind wanted nothing but to return there. There was joy in aimless terror. There’s joy everywhere in exception to stability.
If there is no joy outside my desire to be free of terror, then perhaps there is no meaningful joy available to myself. Every moment I spend happy lacks anything relevant to myself, and every moment I spend for my own desire works against my happiness. It’s a very difficult situation. I suppose I’ve chosen the third option before, twice or thrice without any passion backing the event, more an act for myself, and once with follow-through. However, I still type. I’m still here, but I can’t ever know what comes after. Or even now.