Futility Monkey

Panic isn't the word. I don't know if Mid-Life-Crisis sums it up either. How about loser? Sure, I'll embrace that. I'll wave that flag, and I do so with a grin of despair, smearing my mottled complexion of woe and confusion. No amount of books or videos I consume can adequately mute the raging of the demon of drive that seems to have pricked its ears up recently. What happened? It's difficult to surmise, but it appears my reflection is becoming a bit less muddied. A tad more clarified, and I see the waste of space and time that is me.

So many of us now. We humans are mold on a piece of bread, that is the earth, and we are consuming it with ravenous abandon. And like mold, there will be nothing useful left once devoured. Unlike mold, what was green and flourishing will dry to a crisp and die.

So why does this monkey perched upon my shoulders holler about my lazy good for nothingness? I don't know. It breeds anxiety and incites me to write shit such as this. I don't know what to do, and what's more, I lack the drive to follow through. I have no ambition and everything in life comes easy. Paralyzed with food stamps, and a smidgen of disability pay, I sit in the wealthiest nation on earth. The planet spins and I sit. The youtubes stream, the music thumps, and I see the reality of my life for what it is.

I am less than nothing because I take up resources. I turn the bread, that is this earth, to useless mush. It's true that I don't take up many resources, and when I consider the 8 billion people mulling around, I feel less of a burden. They crank out products, they forge relationships, they live life to the fullest or struggle for survival. They churn and burn and scream to the heavens as the wealthiest toast their success with their peers. And me? And my purpose? I thought it was writing or perhaps it was making music. Then I thought that poetry or perhaps digitally enhancing video footage would be my calling. But no. Alas, without the hungry belly and grim reaper threatening to take me, I lack the incentive to create.

But this monkey. This demon of anxiety and deprecation that destroys my ability to appreciate what I produce is calling for a much more radical solution. Know thyself. It's an old proverb and one that echos in my mind when I'm at my highest peaks and lowest valleys. Does it matter? Without knowing the answer of life's big questions, namely, what happens after death, it seems that suicide can be ruled out. Eight billion is a lot. Perhaps the solution is to see the bigger picture. But what if life is eternal? Will I not be punished in the next go around for my buzz killing slothful indulgence? If there is a hell, it is my fate. But as it is my fate, and there is nothing I can do to change it, I can only hope that whatever started this whole mess is summoned to atone for the catastrophe that is life.

Sharp teeth dig into meat and pain is inflicted in a world that eats itself. The weight of consciousness is heavy, but things like money and material ease drive the human into a mad competitive frenzy of attainment. Some turn away, but how rare is that? Sometimes someone with a fortune will drop out, but often it is the weak and confused that allow their minds to be swept clean and embrace doctrines of dogma and spirituality. It is usually they that deny their flesh to strengthen their spirit.

Perhaps it is evolution that created this monkey of mine. Does my mind realize it is trapped within a broken body? Is it the hundred thousand years of evolution locked in my DNA that cry out to be challenged? Is it God? There is nothing to do and nothing to be done accept live and let live. Bacon and eggs from factory farms and thank you China for everything you've made. What more? Shall I write my story? I do have a story. But the voice of futility bombards my will to do so. Is there not enough to read? And what inspiration, if any, could I bestow upon anyone to make any difference?

My view is too global and education has corrupted my sense of responsibility. Nietzsche and nihilism compete with Jesus and Buddha, but in either case my life and efforts add up to zero. If my soul is eternal, I hereby plead to whoever created it to spare me the karma of my deserved atonement. I have consumed much and produced very little. I have indulged much and abstained seldom. Forgive me? How can one be created and ask to be forgiven? No, perhaps it is the concept of guilt that is the true evil. Maybe it is the monkey that is taunting me into action that I should seek to destroy. But tomorrow and the next day, what am I to do in this suit of useless skin, this paralyzed meat suit?

Pleasure is hard to come by and sharp pins and needles threaten to submerge my peace of mind into a sea of true discomfort. But the physical is beyond my control. What is, simply is, and there is only moment by moment that I should dwell in. But life! How cruel a God, if there is one. Hard teeth sink into muscle and tear tendon from bone. And what for? What is it all about?

A job. Help American's consume Chinese goods. Help friends live more comfortably. Help entertain. Help uplift. Help raise the vibe because.... the monkey is no good. He needs to be vanquished. If I do have a soul, it cries out for vindication. Circles and circles and dead ends of reasoning have made me think the towel should be thrown in the ring. Know thyself, loser.