Playthings of the Gods

"All plots head towards death." Just something I learned in one of my English classes. And with Greek tragedies, humans feel like they're just pawns on a board, fiddled with by the Gods at their whim and fancy. Right, we can see how this post is diving right into depression, lugeing its way down the ice chute at breakneck speed, the only way it's going to stop is coming to a sudden, fatal crash. But how the fuck are you going to know you've stopped when you're dead?

I suppose you don't really notice all the normal, nice, everyday things when you're traveling that fast. Colors become a blur, shapes become indefinite strips, edges become a single continuous line with no end in sight. The beauty that surrounds you become deadly appendage-hurting/ripping/maiming objects. Things become what they aren't, and all perspective is lost........ and you can't stop it.

It's back to feeling like the world is unsympathetic. That nobody understands. I suppose nobody ever will. How can one fully sympathize with another when life itself is a unique experience? If it weren't unique, would it still be a life lived? Einstein once said that "only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile." Do we always live for others? For our parents, family, friends? How bout for yourself? It sounds selfish, but I think people need to take a break, and do things for themselves sometimes. (Ha, and you never take your own advice. Fuck me.)

Perhaps I should go back to being the college-hating, life-loathing, chain-smoking alcoholic I once was. At least it's consistent. Rather than riding the fucking ice-luge tunnel of death with its twists and turns that blindside you and throw you around no matter how 'prepared' you are. Fuck.

"Life is just one damned thing after another." - Elbert Hubbard