No, I’m not happy with life. It could be worse, of course. It can always be worse, but the worst is that it could always be a hell of a lot better. But it never is. All I got is not so bad but not really good. I’m sick of it. Almost 50 years already gone, and what to show for it? Nothing. Almost nothing but that’s a thin almost. Sure I’ve had some moments where I thought life was actually good. Those happy times. I remember them vividly because there has been so few of them. The bad moments have been plenty, and those I also remember. Then there is life. Not that it makes me smile a lot. I get by.
Lately, I find myself not in the best of moods. I sleep a lot or not at all. I don’t get out much. There are things to do, I just don’t feel like doing any of it. Most of the time I’m thinking about how it is that I never get to where I would like to be no matter what I do or say. Or not. I have decided I have no clue how anything works. No matter how I try to figure it out, I end up in the same place.
So I do what I’m not supposed to do – I give up on it all. No more trying. Someone else can try now and let me rest and relax. Let my brain get some vacation.