More Than This

Where does it come from, that feeling that life should hold more significance than it actually does? That I should be more than I am? Too many stories, perhaps. Too many books, movies, shows and songs. So many ideas about what life should be. ‘You think too much.’

Why should it be so terrible to admit that I’m just a weak, isolated ape, ill-adjusted to it’s environment, too poorly socialized to properly fit into the tribe? Why should there be anything more to it? Why not just get on with failing or succeeding in the struggle for genetic replication? Why this feeling that both are somehow unsatisfactory?

‘Get busy living, or get busy dying.’ But it’s never enough. It never feels real enough.

It’s hard to know what’s your own dysfunction, and what’s just the human condition. But in either case, I can’t help feeling that something has gone terribly wrong somewhere along the way.