Flat-Out Lying
2026-10-28
Over the last few months, I have truly found myself embracing non-activity. Perhaps it's because I am too tired and ill for other stuff, but I find that most days, I just hang out and do—well, nothing. Usually I like to have music play in my headphones when I'm reading or writing, but I've even been burned out on music, too. It's as if my brain is just too zapped to even appreciate basic stimuli. I haven't been reading, haven't been doing as much writing, and find myself not even bored, but just too damn tired to give a shit about anything. My morale doesn't feel low, and while I don't think it's as difficult of a period of depression as I've experienced in the past, it's just that the weight of existing takes too much of a toll on me. I have no desire to even distract myself from it anymore; it seems that the silence is all I need anymore. Writing here is nice because it's a light labor, one that has become simpler to handle, and helps me feel like I'm not a complete waste of space. But beyond that, I find myself less engaged with just about everything. It sucks because I don't want to be that kind of asshole who "hates everything," particularly because I know that people like that are an absolute chore to be around.
Usually I try to lighten the mood with silly jokes, but even that gets tiring after a while. It's tough to go to people and say "yeah, I just hate being alive and haven't killed myself yet because I don't want to make everyone sad and go to Hell." Having that kind of blazing honesty scares most people, and I don't blame them. Though dispelling illusions makes me come off as some kind of smart ass, I don't really have another disposition I feel comfortable inhabiting. Moreover, I don't want to box myself in as some "type of guy," like having my interests define my personality in any kind of way. That's how most people figure themselves to be, mostly as a means to fit in with whatever group they're trying to fit into. I can usually do okay with fitting into groups, but despite knowing what to say and how to act, I still feel inevitably alone in my sense of self. Being unique is, in an almost contradictory sense, a universal problem. That rationalization is what helps me connect with people, I think. To know that we are all imperially alone is what brings us together—a devastatingly beautiful irony, which is a rare thing to understand.
I still appreciate the stillness that can come with solitude. Oftentimes, I find myself mostly entertained by my own thoughts. Sometimes they are auto-dialogues, and other times they are day dreams. Either way, that seems to occupy most of my time in these recent months. I've found that my society has become too over-stimulated, and it makes certain tasks more difficult to attend to. Going around and seeing everyone glued to their phones weirds me out, and also oddly curious. When I think of all the people they have access to, all the things to watch, and everything else that comes with it, it makes me overwhelmed at the thought of all that stimulation—and it's happening all the time, every second of every day. It seems that even when we sleep, those things are still awake. Something is always happening, and the constant flow of those impulses has the potential to drive anyone mad. I don't fear missing out, but I do fear the never-ending access to everything.
In my life, that overstimulation manifests itself in strong, fleeting interests. I don't like seeking novelty anymore, because after going through interest after interest, and idea after idea, I've found myself more and more tired. Perhaps that's the root of this non-activity; perhaps I'm just done with it all. What's strange is that I am still quite young, and being so opted out this early is clearly something strange. Conventional wisdom says that another wind will soon begin to carry me, but I just want to sit still and wait until the show's over. I'd walk out the theater if I could, but that's not how this charade works.
I'll just keep lying flat, I suppose.
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