Ennui

Hi! Do you love your life yet? Or are you still in your Nastenka finding era? Maybe even living the counts of an immaculate human being wrongfully convicted of something? What if it’s nothing of that sort and you are basically just hoping to fall asleep on your couch because it’s been a long time since you have actually felt something? Maybe you are still waiting for the Darjeeling Limited to come take you to your destination, or perhaps you are waiting for the time to snoop back at you and let you understand the glorified prejudice associated with being Mia. All in all, dear, how does it feel to be lost in these modes of disquiet apprehension all so relatable to the life you are living and yet all so distinctly different that every moment of fleeing from this subjugation feels like a wakeup call that you are not giving enough details to what stands right ahead of you. Oh, how wonderful the story of Henry Sugar is! But, hey, you can’t beat life and intersectional feminism by being wonderful, you know. 

The epidemic, I like to call this. This urge of being a valuable person where the person in you is barely there. “Hang in there, buddy”. But do you know the association to a fanatic existence that I am living that compels me to question everything from math to life and painting an equation in canvas of streets and skies? I try to call myself a curious human being. Honey, only if curiosity could ever tell me the traits of being insane! I love reality. This materialistic, capitalistic and horrifying world full of people all scouring their ways to become valuable. I see people jumping across cities in skateboards, gossips flying around like oxygen just because an unlikable person did something great, there is life everywhere around me; there are smiling faces and cursed words, there are sick people and rich pharmacies, there are electric vehicles being pulled by the new groom somewhere because they didn’t account for traffic. Life is such a parody, it feels. This epidemic of a plethora of emotions all juggled around as if each one stupefies the matter into its hands and tells you that you are not supposed to have complicated feelings and emotions. But dear, how can emotions and feelings not be complicated? They define you. After all, when Albert Camus said, “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer”, he was musing existentially too. 

How many mistakes have you made in your life dear that you cannot live peacefully because it all feels too much of a ruse and failure to give oneself a chance to make you happy without noticing? How hard will you try to let go and still not be able to because you are immobilized with a trapped tranquility in a bubble and you are afraid that once it breaks, nothing will remain of you? Life is harsh and acts like an idiosyncrasy because it feels trapped inside a rusty freedom. After all, what freedom is of the use that can never guarantee me the moral responsibility of being a good human being? What freedom is of the use which can not even grant me the liberty to be soulfully and painlessly alone? I know, I know what you are thinking. How can I, a depressed lookalike of a mannequin, blame freedom for my own problems? Just because I can’t enjoy freedom doesn’t make freedom bad, isn’t it? Just because a labyrinth of maelstrom of emotions and conjugated silences nullify my voices and my thoughts doesn’t mean that thoughts are bad, right? But it’s easy to blame something other than accepting that I am lonely. Maybe it’s for the best that freedom to me is a dangerous fact. Dear, my free will wills me to have no will. Paradoxical, isn’t it? 

Hey, but I hope you love your life. I just had bad luck. 

 

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