You get this far through life and it's clear that others have done it, are doing it, and will continue to do it, so much better. Less alcohol, sure, and more money, by which I also mean more focus and effort and drive from even a young age.

Or more luck, of course, in all kinds of ways, but let’s not forgot the efforts of that kid in class with straight As, still acing the tests in middle age. Doing the work, getting things done, while we spend the days in stupor or sloth, tripping in and out of life, exploring other paths.

There's nothing to be done, nothing that could have been done, or will be done, to escape the reality tunnel I'm stuck in, except to change my mind and become another person.

The idea is to have fun, right? A good time, and to help others have a good time, too?

It's so simple, and yet I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.

The point of being very rich is to have whatever you want, whenever you want it. Products, services, and the obedience of others, as well as the minimization of all possible delays and annoyances.

There's another way to freedom, of course, which is to come at things from the other side of the equation, and reduce one's needs and desires, to exist orthogonal to the prevailing mood and find alternative paths to joy than gluttony and dominance.

But either way you meet death in the end.

 My gamble was based on the observation everyone dies.

Self-obsessed and permanently distracted, I barely listen to myself, let alone pay attention to anyone or anything else.

I learn nothing and grow like a stone.

 

I understand that I am happy, joyful even, and that this feeling of a warm glow inside could not be improved upon without mania, something which no longer appeals at this age, preferring instead to surf along the edge of it, to bask in the glisten of madness rather than fall into the depths.

The weakness - beyond poverty and precariousness - is the lack of validation, the positive reflection of myself in others, the reassurance that I'm doing this right. And I wonder about the dizzy heights above me, too, think about those times it all came together, when I saw what those at the top see, and how entirely lost I was. How everything is carried in my body, how in the end there's always this world, my world, contained in the space between my ears and down to my feet, and how it'll all end when I do, like it does for everyone.

Too good at being content.

I carry paradise within me at all times.

I feel this with every moment of my being, but understand that objectively, within the prevailing value system, my life is worthless and something of a joke, if not simple boredom and horror.

I go nowhere and do nothing, live near the bottom of society, isolated and toying with madness for kicks, striving for immensity at the limits of perception and joy, the master of my world.

Of course, I can’t really tell this story without mentioning alcohol and the river of beer that I floated through life on for decades, the streams of whisky and springs of wine, the bales of weed, slabs of hash, and buckets of dried mushrooms - that whole “pursuit of sex, drugs and enlightenment in an exciting city waiting to be fucked” thing.

I thought there was nothing to build, nothing that could be done, despite living in a world that had been built and surrounded by people who had done things – were doing them, would do more.

This lack of achievement and drive was like a badge of honor for some decades, as I existed, and lived well, and didn’t dream Napoleonic dreams or even seek to accrue the ordinary things – a car, a wife, a home.

But while I slept and tossed and turned, spent days and weeks and months and so on getting well rested, eating well, having fun, going deeper into myself with the expectation that something good would be found, the essence of life, the meaning of things, others moved ahead and the world continued to develop, people continued to build, and so I got left behind in many if not all ways, tied to the page until even that disgusted me.

There was nothing to be done, and yet all around me things were done.

I found hope in an apple, a glass of water, a way of moving my body so things stretched. This was life, wasn’t it?

And yet I was poor, precarious and still am, with youth a distant memory, and men my age now grandfathers.