It’s been months since I’ve started to come here to find comfort, just seeing people as eager to quit this world as me makes me feel better, I felt safe, and comfortable each time I opened up the website, so I’ve decided to create an account too.
My issue is not necessarily coming from a particular event but much more from a profoundly anchored existantial boredom. Each passing day is the same, even though I know there is so much I have not seen? Being human is such a weird experience. There are so many things I want to say I don’t know what to start with?
I do not believe in anything really, I do not believe in kindness, love, good or bad, I like to observe how they come in different forms and from different things but I do not believe there is some kind of universal good or bad. That makes me quite apathetic to suffering and disgust, I do feel them, I just see it all as part of the game. Things just are what they are.
I am supposed to find what I want to do with my life, right now, but I don’t believe in anything so there is nothing I want to do. All my interests end up boring me, I know there’s so much but because I see there’s so much nothing really stands out to me.
I appreciate having nothing to do, being alone and walking in my appartment with an empty stare. Looking at the grey sky, I like when the sky is grey, I dislike the sun, there’s is no depth and serenity in the sun, no mystery at all.
I find myself partaking in different activities but giving them up as quickly as I started them. I can’t stay still in front of a movie I have to watch them in 2 or 3 parts. I get interested by so many topics and start reading different genres of books but never finish anything. I think of many projects to keep myself occupied but never follow through them. I talk to people but end up thinking there’s nothing to say and language never fullfills its goal properly.
Poetry, books, games, I tried many things but in the end nothing works.
I first thought if I solved what caused this boredom I would be happier but it turns out the boredom always comes back no matter what I do or try. And I can’t stop it.
Life is bound to be disappointing and suffering cannot be avoided unless you decide to die in one way or another, to me buddhist monks do die in a way.
Reality is disappointing because even when you get what you want it seemed “better in your mind” and in your mind everything is frustrating because it is immaterial. So nothing can ever be fulfilling.
Many solve their boredom with love. But I can’t. I always think too much about it and ruin it. I ruin everything for myself and then pretend it doesn’t make me unhappy and I laugh at misery,”It’s fun”, I say, “I’m fine with this reality I think it’s funny”.
I used to think of ideal partners in my head and love stories I’d have with them. I used to think I’d love to find someone who I can just stop talking with and someone who has an emptiness in their gaze, someone who sees the profound lack of meaning in this giant playground. Someone aware of their existential boredom. But I feel like any partner I could imagine would never exist, it is an ideal. Then, I worsten my condition, by thinking that love doesn’t even exist to begin with and why would I want a partner anyway. No love doesn’t exist.
I’m not particularly attached to people and if I am I rationalize it, always separate your feelings from your thoughts. That’s what I do. It’s shitty but I can’t stop myself, I’m quite the hypocrite but that is fine with me, I’m not attached to morality, I only conform to it not to have problems and because many things I couldn’t do or don’t feel the desire to. People usualy think I care more than I do, I have this one “friend” that thinks it took long enough for her to get me to say I was attached to her, 1 year, that’s ridiculously short, I said that to have peace. She is replaceable to me, I don’t even find her interesting, as I don’t find myself interesting, people aren’t annoying to me, they just are, just like me. Though there are people I do appreciate I always know they don’t really matter to me, I can get a little bit attached but I am way too aware of the inconsistancy of my feelings, which are nothing but a complex system designed for whatever the reason there is behind the desire for survival of humans, just maybe fun. I am probably saying banalities but what else could I say. I am also often aware of why I appreciate them, which is more than often a selfish reason but that is fine. We’re selfish and that’s ok.
The only moments when you feel good is when you indulge in something without thinking, like erotic encounters, or when you drink alcohol. There is a boy I quite like and I am aware that if I feel this positively about him and am this attracted is because I want to indulge in this kind of erotic encounter with him, and I know I’m quite perverted but that’s because that’s the only thing that feels fun right now, the only reason it’s him and not anyone else is because he looks empty, and I am attracted to people who look empty. I can’t pin down what my body does when it’s in love and I don’t want to think about it but I can’t stop. I can never stop thinking unless I indulge in pleasure of alcohol.
Often I find myself in a weird crisis where I make weird movements and have strange images going through my head, I control all of this, it’s an activity like any other but it feels better than all other activities. Except maybe walking without pupose in a restricted space or crying. Crying always feels good, I do love to cry, I love to cry. I also love bruises, I love bruises, I love the fact that they’re dysfunctionments and they hurt, but not too much, I love wounds. Things that hurt are good, but not too much, just enough for you to feel that there’s depth in them. Sometimes I think I’m too weird to be loved and nobody would handle my desires, yet I think I’m so banal, I don’t think I’m interesting, I do the same things everyone does, maybe I try to be different, maybe by admiting to be banal I try to be different. Thinking too much usually ends up with this kind of reasoning, I don’t even care about this, but I think about it anyway, I think about too many things.
Even writing this note now feels unsatisfying and I can’t express anything worth expressing.