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“I love those who yearn for the impossible.” -Goethe

What if all I want is a outrageous, chaotic, and complicated life? What if I am most satisfied with self-tortuous extremes? Where painful insanity and public ostracism lives. What if I choose to accept my strange idiosyncrasies and masochistic habits?

My head is a noisy place. Shouting voices lecturing me to hustle, learn, build sand castles, play with leggos, and grasp for more…

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…for bigger and better. Sacrifice health and sleep for accomplishments. Strive for the best! Make the world a better place. Do the best I can before I wither into nothingness.

But the world keeps telling me to settle down, be like everyone else, to be happy, to relax and be calm. Take a break! Watch some television and eat a donut. They say that striving for excellence will leave me sad, worn out, and depleted. Drained of joy. But what if a part of me likes the feeling of never being enough? What if the alternative for me is a dreadful boredom?

I refuse to drift and not amount to anything before I die. I am determined to not only care for my loved ones in the best way possible, but to create beautiful things for the world as well. I will never say “enough” because I can always help people more and in better ways.

Because there is never enough time in the day. Sometimes I brush my teeth, listen to highly intellectual podcasts, and take long dumps all at the same time. The last time I woke up feeling content was June 16, 1999.

I’m almost certain that when I’m on deathbed I will regret everything. Leonardo Da Vinci regretted “never completing a single work.” Guy de Maupassant’s epitaph reads: “I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing.” Hayao Miyazaki says, “I have never been happy in my daily life. Filmmaking is suffering.” Goethe, towards the end of his life, believed he hadn’t accomplished half of what he desired.

I will never keep up with the frantic pace of society, news, Trump tweets, or all of the cutting edge ideas. Does anybody? I will never be fast enough, smart enough, or good enough. I’ll be forever beating myself up for being a restless, hungry dumbass.

Some people have called me obsessed, too intense, wild, and a fucking clown. I’m riddled by doubts and insecurities. But doesn’t that mean I’m alive?

What if I fight against my limitations? Make war with who I am and what I need? Refuse to accept a slow, small, and docile life? A mediocre life. A horrifying, zombie-like, colorless existence…

No, my life will never be enough. I’ll never stop to smell the flowers. I’m lost, sprinting nowhere, intoxicated by a dream.

 

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