"So Ya Thought Ya Might Like To Go To The Show?"

Another morning, and here I sit at work, restless. There are so many things I could be doing--working on research, finishing up that last little bit on Latin or on my grad school applications, or even looking at the evil 30 page business paper that came in last night. Instead, I'm sitting here, typing away at this thing as though it mattered, as though more than one or two people actually read it. Kinda silly, really.

I don't know why I have these bouts of self-doubt. I'm plagued with them every so often, for reasons I'll never fully understand. One moment, I'll be ambling along the path of life with no worries. The next, I'm sitting here pondering my own mortality, considering listening to the Cure, and asking myself, "What's the point, really, when you get down to it?" It's moments like those when I wish I was an alcoholic. If I was, the answers would be simple--I'd just drink. Okay, so that wouldn't answer any of the questions, but after enough alcohol, you don't really care about answers, you just care about whether or not the room will stop spinning.

But alas, I've never really been a big fan of drinking (and I'm too poor to make it much of a habit anyway, at least in the sort of quantity I'd need), so I have to deal with my brain trying to wrap itself around these damn questions. It all makes me wonder if maybe Socrates was wrong. Maybe the unexamined life is worth living, if only because you don't have the weight of self-examination crushing you. This must be how Atlas felt, only his burden seemed light in comparison sometimes.

Really it's all rather immaterial. I know I'm not going to change anything as fundamental about myself as my desire and willingness to examine my life and myself. For better or worse, I'm stuck as an examiner in perpetuity.

This probably all comes of listening to too much Pink Floyd. It'll be the death of me, I swear.

~chaos cricket

Song of the Moment: Pink Floyd, "Young Lust"