18 September 2015

A couple words about my own angst

Dear diary,

I wonder if it’s true that events from infancy play the largest part in determining one’s personality. I would define my personality as anxious. For as long as I can remember, fear has ruled my life; although I’ve been warned not to give in to it. I understand that everyone feels anxious at certain times, but excessive anxiety is diagnosed as a disorder only when it disrupts the normal course of…

In truth, I can’t recall the phrasing that is supposed to define an anxiety disorder—but who cares. I bow to my fear, and I’m sure that that is the wrong thing to do. I was only wondering if this constant anxiety is something that I would have had to live with no matter what, or if it was caused by an avoidable trauma. I haven’t a single recollection of enduring any awful event when young, except birth itself; therefore, unless something happened since then which was too horrendous even to be remembered, I assume that the Devil just naturally manufactured me to be high-strung.

What conditions of human history required such an energy overkill, though? If infancy isn’t to blame for my excessive anxiety, then is it the fault of the course of eons of existence? Fearful mothers and fearful fathers passed on their fearful genes to fearful litters of fearful children, the most fearful of which survived and spawned increasingly fearful cowards, culminating in Yours Truly?

I admit that, in my weakest moments, I wish there were a point to all of this dread. I think that anxious people find it easier to accept absurdity; we’re prone to see existence as irrational. Calm people feel anxiety only when, for instance, their life is threatened; so this world makes sense, to calm people. But I feel unbearable fear when simply walking around the block; and, every single day, I walk round the same block, and I feel the same unbearable fear: so, in order to keep my sanity, I conclude that this world is absurd.

I hate colleges because… No, I have no good reason why I hate colleges; but it’s a truth that I hate them. I hate them all. And I also hate jobs. Every job I’ve ever had has been the opposite of cushy. I hope that I can someday find a job that is humane, because I’d prefer to be able to say that I…

I often hear people say that they love their country. I’m not courageous enough to question this claim outright, but I shyly wonder why they assert such things. What is there to love about any country? The landscape? The scent of its prison bars? I guess I can understand that. My hometown’s landscape has a lot of blacktop and garages, plus it often smells like fabric softener.

2 comments:

Qualo Infinity said...

I only have two things to say. #1) An abundance of blacktop and garages, laced with the fragrance of fabric softener is what makes a country great. #2) In my weakest moments, I feel a lot like Barney Fife from the Andy Griffith Show. #3) Yes, I know I said two, but I lied... I wonder if any country has ever had the opportunity to boast of having Nerf prison bars?

Bryan Ray said...

The implementation of Nerf prison bars will be my top priority when I am crowned the runner-up subprime minister of our imaginary country. And Barney Fife will be the prototype for our army of clones.

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