How Lonely, Loftiness

It's a fucked-up feature of our nature, how we hold onto our defilements. This week I've been productive and happy. I was relatively outgoing. I did not take my bullshit too seriously, and though the hobgoblins continued to nip away at the edges of the field of consciousness, they were at bay. But the strange thing is how much I miss them. I miss the hug of sadness. I miss the Picasso's-blue-period spiritual heaviness of February. Fucked up how we look back to our darkest times and (after that fact; only after the fact) find them times of purgation and purification.

It's because I'm good at it. I know which masks to wear in which occasions. I know how to feign togetherness. I know what sentences to say. I know how to spin the narrative of my life to induce the illusion of inevitable lurching towards prosperity, happiness, shininess, spaciousness, the brilliance of a blue sky. (The lurching is my tolerant nod to the chthonic forces.)

But I can't help feel it's all bullshit. And I think that's because I fear learning new things. I fear interacting with well-adjusted (or well-masked) people as one of them. But it seems everyone's becoming better-adjusted and more mature, and slowly our glaring deficiencies retreat to the private mini-worlds of coupledom or find sublimated expression in a poem, a short story, and eventually something you can monetize.

Suffice it to say, the greys and blues have far more shades than the cheap neon yellows and reds of this ESTJ society I find myself airdropped into.

Enough for now.

Consider: "Self-help? Ha! Everyone should just read Schopenhauer and shut the fuck up."