The Cost of Living is Death

I welcome death. Relatively speaking, I have had a life of chaos, stress, heartbreak, and I am not always sure if I am capable of feeling the intense joy of living I once did. I go through intermittent bouts of happiness, sadness, depression, and cheerfulness. The inconsistent wave of intense emotions can be terribly difficult to manage and live with as the scepter of black hangs over my psyche like a cloud covering which heralds the arrival of rain.

I imagine what life would be like if I was 100% anonymous. What would it be like to live with very few traces on who I am, what I do, and what I think? I wonder what life would be like completely untethered to a location or obligations other than to myself. Just me, some clothes, and an open road to wherever I wanted to live.

That is undeniably a dream, but a dream nonetheless.

Instead I stay still, figuring a way through the mental cage I feel imprisioned in. The cage which teases me with a key right outside of the door and unlocks itself every so often only to pull me back into it. I live my life with my eyes focused on what I need to do, but joy is missing.

The workmanlike manner of my existence is disconcerting. It traps me into a cycle of “get shit done” and removes the thrill of living. There is an aching need to find that exuberance again. I want to find joy in the little things. I want to be able to mentally relax without the desire to stay busy. I want to explore what my world has to offer and feel present with it all. I want more from my life besides where I am right now.

What does that entail for me? I don’t know to be honest, but the thirst is palpable. I want to drink from that cup of life, but the taste is akin to vinegar at times.

How can I sweeten my existence? This is the question that keeps me awake at night.