2004-01-24 - 6:51 a.m.

Ragnarok

Alright, I said to myself three years and change in all senses of the word ago, I'll do it -- I'll be what I've come here for, in the apt words of Sting.

And I've tried, I really have. Ideals aren't something I only hold other people to -- aren't even something I bother keeping in the same mental universe as other people, really, after several years of surreptitious glancing and measuring.

I'm searching for transcendence, I think, and I can't find a damn bit of it. It's what I've tried to be, and on a parallel path it's what I'm looking for. I've inched my way in the directions I thought it might lie, often more like crawling. No confirmation that it exists, not in myself or others, and not even any words to explain more clearly what I am looking for.

I've wondered for several years what keeps me going -- suicide, after all, is generally considered to be the easy out, and it does seem on the surface to be a very rational measure when your purpose for living will presumably remain unfilled for the duration of life's trial edition. Most recently I'd brought it further than usual to the conclusion that the habit of living and refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of being right when they underestimate me keep me alive.

It's more than that though. Those individual traits come from a gestalt, and the over-pattern is where answers may lie.

Fact is, suicide is just jarringly inconsistant with my modus operandi to date, and that sort of inconsistancy is unavoidably ugly to me.

It remains that I'm still hoping for an easy out -- that has not changed and may not, don't know. I also remain, though, which makes the amount of thought I've put into this subject seem rather pointless.

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