Daydreams of the Ideal

Somewhere, there exists a perfect life.

 

Somewhere, a man wakes, and all his actions hence are of his explicit design. All that occurs in his environs is by his consent, and all that he seeks to accomplish is wrought swiftly by his will.

This life must exist, this ideal man, capable of doing and being as he designs, for if that man does not exist, then my own failures have been an exercise in futility. And that, to put it mildly, would suck quite a lot.

 

Things in my own life, you may guess, have been rough as of late. I fail again and again to meet my personal goals and deadlines. I struggle every day to move on from a relationship that I thought would last the rest of my life. Every moment, I fight the urge to relapse into reclusive indolence, to sink into my chair, stare into the sweet seductive screen, and to accept the oblivion offered therein.

The oblivion is sweet, but she leaves bitterness and pain in her wake.

Depression is a vicious cycle, as I’ve said here before. It slithers into the depths of your mind, stealing all joy from your life. It tempts you to sit and while away the hours doing whatever seems easiest at the time. And you obey this impulse, because you can’t make yourself care enough to do anything else. You don’t have the will to do any favors for someone (yourself) you don’t give a shit about.

Sometimes, all it takes is a kind word to bring me back to myself. Sometimes, all the words in the world can’t budge the immovable emptiness from my mind.

The thing about vicious cycles, is that they’re just so goddamn easy. Just a little oblivion to ease the pain, you tell yourself. Then she pulls you in slowly. Slowly, yet soon she sinks her hooks into you and pulls you ever downward, ever deeper into her clutches. You recede into yourself, and you pull away from everything in your life that requires any effort at all.

It’s so much easier to absorb yourself in mindless entertainment than to face the feelings aching at the back of your heart. It’s infinitely easier to drown yourself in Youtube, in Netflix, in video games, in food, in sex, in whatever vice you may choose, than it is to confront the devil which drives you to vice in the first place. The devil which resides in your heart, in the back of your mind, in the oblivion to which you’ve sold your soul for comfort from the pain.

Somewhere out there, there is a man unencumbered, who has long since mastered his impulse towards oblivion. There is a man who never feels depression’s bittersweet kiss. He never reaches for vice to drown the sorrow of his own failures. He rises, and with each passing day he grows stronger in his resolve, his will, his desire to fight against that which would hold him down.

For us mortal men, however, such strength is merely an ideal towards which we may strive. It is a mountain around which lies nirvana, yet across which we may never pass. It is the endless winding road, and salvation is forever just out of sight. We struggle for it, yet until our death it is inches outside our grasp, taunting us.

 

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