Inertia.

Let me tell you, my friends, and remind you once more,  that I do find peace in deceiving myself. I deceive myself willingly. I love to live in inertia. This is my real illness. What shall I write more than that? I just love to come to this corner in my shelter on some loathsome night. I find pleasure in sitting in this corner alone hearing my lungs wheezing. In this stillness, as my head is always full of fumes, constant tones with medium frequency  go through my ear like bees buzz around a hive, my hands freeze from this coldness inside my bedroom; at the same time, people go and fall in the arms of their most attempting vulnerabilities. But I love it, I do. Oh, this coughing is coming back. Please wait a second!... This winter weather is killing me. My toes and fingers are numb. This cold wind going forth and back through my larynx. But, I'm used to it.

 

And then those ideas come to my mind. Strange ones at which I'm always hammering. That's all I need to start my nocturnal journey. Every time I think of them, shivers go through my body. I recall memory filled with transgressions. But I sleep. I do. I don't fall in deep sleep. I lay half conscious. Just before the dawn and after, I feel every moment. My brain starts to spin and many ideas come at once into my mind as if they are in ambush to haunt me. So I try to find an outlet for them.

 

I said I love to live in inertia. I have things to do, but I don't do them since I don't see any worthy goal behind them. So I take my pen instead. But this inertia, my dear friends, is the one which keeps me thinking and concentrating on those thoughts. Oh, this coughing again. I must go and see... No, I won't. I don't like to go where I was offended several times. I have a big problem with self-esteem for sure, or how do French people call it? AMOUR PROPRE, yes that's the word. But I'll go there when it is needed, not because I'm playing the humble but I'm forced to do so. Not for this coughing for sure. Sorry, I talked too much nonsense. Back to inertia. So, as I always say, only fools find a worthy goal (as they describe it) to fight for in this life and drudge long nights so to achieve it. That's why I lay idle.

 

Then one question comes to torment my mind again. How can a man define himself? I mean, if you look at me, what would you say? If you find one, just one adjective to define me, then I will be glad. A blatherskite? I'm happy, that suits me. I can't find one to define you. Let me tell you another fact about me and related to the self-esteem I talked about, I relentlessly question myself every time I go to bed as I get upset and tell myself that my presence in this life is pointless and that I'm inferior to the others. Don't you smell a paradox? I can't explain it.

 

ENOUGH.

 

I think, gentlemen, that you have to drop your worries, and try to find a worthy goal, since you, certainly, don't have one. My two-penn'orth.

Reviews

[Philip Muls]

You capture well the lack of purpose we all sometimes feel. What is the point right ? We're all going to die.

People who think and worry too much destroy their own capacity to be happy. I experience the same. So I support the conclusion of your piece.