I’m not even sure why I’m writing again. I’m not even sure why you are reading. Hell, I’m not even sure what day it is.
I guess that’s the blessing and the curse of being an insomniac; all the days and nights run together as one like a cacophony of city traffic at midday. I see everything unfolding all around me at the same time – all of space and time yet lacking of permanence as the minutes pass into hours, hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into months and months into years. I see the beginning of things, and I see the end. You look at a building and see the wonderfulness of its architecture and I see the same building and see the wonderfulness of its cracks and broken stone as it ages.
I see one friend go through a sorrow that no one should ever have to go through, and I see another become a parent for the first time and marvel at the sheer dichotomy of life. I see one friend end a relationship and I see others that are just beginning to start one. It’s a very odd thing to see the world like this. Maybe that’s part of the problem.
I used to have passion. I used to be the first in the fight, the first to raise their voice, the first to burn all bridges in a fit of righteous vengeance just to prove that I was right.
And then it was gone. Replaced by utter nothingness. I don’t have a fear response, I don’t have a pleasure response anymore. That, combined with a subconscious death-wish and a feeling of invulnerability makes for crossing the street SUPER EXCITING.
Sometimes I fear as if I just got tired of fighting the world and having nothing to show for it. But time and again, it’s there. More often now, in the work place, where I am consistently told that I’m too aggressive with people, that I need to tone down my words and cater to the audience and that calling people incompetent fuckups is an insult to incompetent fuckups.
You ever watch lions at the zoo? You can always tell which ones were captured in the wild by the look in their eyes. The wild cat. She remembers running across the plain, the thrill of the hunt. Four hundred pounds of killing fury, locked in a box. But after a while, their eyes start to glaze over, and you can tell their soul has died. But then, maybe this is how the world works.
Kardashev and Dyson gave us the building blocks of civilization and rated them on a scale based on advancement based on energy output and the needs of its populace. A Type One civilization has mastered its planet, and is using the whole world’s energy potential and has removed the internal struggles inherent of its race. A Type Two society has needs so massive that it can only exist if it harnesses the energy of its sun. A Type Three has gone galactic, extracting energy needs on an interstellar basis.
We can create cars that can drive themselves, refrigerators that tell us when we are low on eggs and yet today we still argue if the Earth is flat, our government is in freefall, and we’re still having a fucking argument about a woman’s right to her own body.
We are still not even a Type One society. We remain a Zero society.
This is where I live now.
this used to be my playground