A thought

Funny how we so diligently lie to ourselves. Even when we know the repercussions of such and such, we are willing to live such and such over and over again. Because it is familiar ground. Because we have come to acquire the absurdity so much that it brings us comfort. The disappearance of that which causes despair is more despairing than the source itself; and we will dwell in it for fear of the new.
When will this cycle end? I never knew myself to be so masochistic (oh how I hate this word and its ultra-modern cliché). Actually, I did know, but grew so accustomed to the theoretical mental masturbation that I preferred to revel in it than to return to simplicity.
If we are neither masochistic nor sadistic, where is the fun?
Even separation sees this duality. I do not like the role of the sadist. It brings me a pain that is not as surrogate as being masochistic. I prefer the searing pain of being hurt than the heavy squander of inflicting it. I find myself more in the splinters of my heart than in its throbbing when it is still intact. But to break the cycle, my heart must throb rhythmically until it runs tired, and breathing becomes sparse again.
But then, what will happen? How will the excitement of pain reappear? Will I live my life in a flatline that sees no end and no beginning? Is this what they all promise will bring me collective laughter? You will float, they say, from the life of one to the other; and you will be reborn in sanity, they say, just as your excellence deserves.
Funny how they so diligently lie to themselves, as they desperately tumble in the washing-machine cycle of their own comfort.


--- Something I wrote a some years ago, which is now as relevant as ever...