I was between sleeping and waking the other day, I had a serious debate as to whether I had killed someone. Or at least disposed of a body. I couldn’t remember killing anyone, but disposing of a corpse logically follows that, and that I could remember. The anxiety of someone discovering the secret was overwhelming. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt more paranoid… And it wasn’t even real.
Do I not take life as seriously as I should? Is there a graded scale for such a thing? I feel as though everything’s easier with graphs and scales and equations. Even if I don’t fully understand them, just seeing things represented thusly makes them feel simpler, more manageable, more knowable.
I hate pulling the nihilist card, but there’s so much I don’t know and so much I can’t know that it does seem overwhelming pointless to try and discover or try things. But then I always grow tired of the monotony that accompanies not exploring my life and this world. And so I try new things for a bit, until I’m overwhelmed.
Maybe it’s my lack of focus. Which isn’t so much jumping from one thing to the next, it’s a constant step backwards to look at the whole of my existence and wondering what sort of person is this making me? What sort of person does this? It’s the neutral answers that give me grief. “People do this, most people in fact, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to…” The things that aren’t inherently wanted or unwanted by the person I’ve become.