As cathartic as I find writing to be, I am unable to do it without coming up against the same tireless nemesis that dogs every other effort I limply embark upon. From outside myself I'm sure that the consequence of this confrontation presents itself as laziness. But within myself, it feels like paralysis.
I cannot sufficiently explain myself to others. I cannot even understand it myself.
The best, and most concise explication I've devised till now is simply that I seem to have been born without ambition of any kind.
Oh, there are plenty of dreams. An ex-wife once said, conspicuously within earshot, at a party, "that's what I get for falling for a dreamer". Or, words to that effect, anyway.
And from time to time I conceive plans; schemes that I think will surely - finally - be my deliverance from mediocrity.
But here I sit, in my stasis, devastated, but unmoved, by humiliation.
Others may be horrified by the realization of their relative insignificance within the vastness of the Universe. But from this knowledge I take comfort.
In the past, my several failed attempts at self-annihilation have caused inexpressible pain, and, over the long term, imposed material costs upon those few who care. The upshot is that I have emerged worse off than before. Guilt is a sharp blade.
So, pondering the expansive immensity of both time and space, I am sedated, calmed, comforted. Whereas a man or woman of impressive accomplishments might be brought to melancholy by the idea of the paucity of their contributions, for me the epiphany is something of a great leveler. After all, I know that the day will come when not only I, but everyone I know, will be forgotten. And when even Shakespeare and Jefferson will be of no more significance to anyone alive than I will be.
I am no less capable of rationalization than anyone else of my species, you see.
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