Journal Entry 21–07–2017 (Everything is Fine)

Niyi
Niyi
Jul 22, 2017 · 3 min read

I’m not sure — I never am. I want to say, maybe, someday, I will be, but I am aware enough to know that is probably untrue — but I think what I am asking of life is not too much. I feel my desires are perfectly reasonable.

I have tried to muster in myself a love for money. But continually, consistently, I have failed. I know that the things I think about, they are things the world feels I should have, not things I honestly require.

I am fine with the material things I have.

I mean, I want the Google Pixel. I always want newer clothes. The Surface Laptop is in my dreams once or twice every week. But I am fine without them.

I want a deeper voice. I wish for a more imposing character. But I am aware those are to alter how I feel the society sees me, not to satisfy my own point of view. I truly am fine.

I wish I had more ambition. I think it would make my peers respect me.

I know I would be good at any job. I have held three, and have been good at them all. Not great, but good enough to be better than most of my coworkers, and the ones who follow me. I possess what Lucia Berlin has called ‘Nobility of Spirit’ that makes me excel at anything I choose to do. I say this even though I am a modest person. Because it is true.

But I am fine.

Sometimes I wish I was straight. I know it would make life easier. I wish I genuinely enjoyed the company of others. I wish I knew how to care. What to say. When to say it. Basically, more socially adept. But I also know that I sincerely do not want those things. I am just fine. I have peace.

But I am still sad.

I do not know why. Nowadays, I am always crying. In buses. At work. In my room late at night. My chest contracts and tears fall from my eyes. I hide it, of course. I do. Sometimes I do not care to, but most times I do. I am sad. I am tired. I truly am. O ti re mi.

I have, for maybe six years now, been aware that life is a pointless struggle. I hate it. I am not sure, but I think I do. I surely do not like that I have to do it. I say this not with sadness, but frankness. It is just all stress.

I have asked, several times, why I have to be. Why the self is a thing. I know that there are no answers. It is all so irritating.

I have never been one for letting people know how I feel. About my private sufferings. Not people who are not friends, anyway. And not often even in the case of friends. I know too well about the loads we all have heaped on our backs as we climb this mountain. I am too kind, or maybe what I am is timid, to burden another with mine. It is fine.

I do not like to think this is depression. Sometimes, I know it is. But then I think: I feel this every day. No one is depressed all the time.

But, I don’t know. Maybe this is a new low. Maybe it is all this talk about Chester and suicide and depression. Maybe this is a cry for help. God, I hope not.

I usually am not a noble person, so that rules out the idea of this being for someone to find her/himself in. To relate. Please. I am still finding myself. I really do not care about you.

I suspect, though, that this is for me. To discover more of myself. I am in the habit of burrowing into myself. Find truths my mind would otherwise seek to hide from me. I think this is an exercise in that. And that’s fine.

Everything is fine.

(You may feel compelled, after reading this, to hit me up, comment, say something, anything. Please, do not.)

Niyi

Written by

Niyi

black sheep be baaing.

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