Drudgery of Existence

The toughest decision is to live. Unhindered by oppression or racism, I drudge on forward.  I make the choice to live in chaos, when I could escape simply by ending this miserable life. There are days I am appalled by how one’s own existence is unexplainable and for what know reasons we exist. Bound by existence yet free to end it with death. I feel lost at that junction yet I still continuously choose to evade the latter, death. Knowingly I occupy my time with trifles, mere materialistic minuscule goals to pass time. The energies from monotony subliming onto pressing moral and intellectual boundaries.

I could just jump off a bridge and be done with it. Life is easily lost and created in marvelous ways known and not. Beads of sweat accumulates on my brow when I ponder, “to live or not to live?” Morally its not honorable to commit seppuku. I felt it necessary to limit the reasoning for my existence solely for miniature materialistic goals that are reset every so often. Hence limits sadistic thought trains. Another escape is to sit as if in a coma accomplishing absolutely nothing. Dreary but unproductive, it would involve getting a, “McJob,” employment for one who has little expectation of life and progression. That would work for being unproductive besides helping some corporate conglomerate. All this jibber-jabber on going nowhere fast drives myself up a brick wall. I am opposed to becoming a puppet for another’s gain for I prefer to do the reaping of innumerable rewards myself. Then again there is times when all moral values is sucked into a vacuum, leaving oneself uninhibited and free. It seems quite shameful to be free, when there is a twisted love for my gaoler. A constant chase appeases the conscience; balancing the need for a synthesis. I wish for freedom, yet I want to be enslaved.

If I had taken the road more often traveled, I would be dead. Now that is a really messy ordeal with a monotony of paperwork that bureaucrats would have a happy nightmare over. Not that anyone would fuss over losing another lunatic or two, only those in close proximity to me would be mildly affected. Then my jaunt of an existence would be good for naught. That would not be too enjoyable, too dull to slip away cowardly when I still have some remnants of a voyeuristic notion to sit in cafés and pose myself as a, “man in the crowd.” Finding relief from my own mundane life my surfing in a crowd blocking out my thoughts. So I am not read and labeled like tuna fish for a cat. It now would make legible sense to condemn myself to drudge on and become something revolutionary. Since I have not the liking of death, I live.


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