My Drunken View On Survival

First off, I apologize for this rant and the rambling, non-sensical nature of it. I realize it and I don't care. This whole thing is tired and dreary. I’m very depressed & down-on-myself right now and especially very... not sober.
I am going on because I have nothing better to do. Take this as both the reason for writing this as well as the end meaning of it.


There’s a difference between surviving and living. To survive, all you need to do is not die. To live, you need to have a real life. Circular logic- yes, but logic nonetheless.
Many years ago (it depresses me even more to work out the actual number), I gave up trying for a life. So many defeats so many times, it was as if G*d was punishing a particularly slow student- repeatedly knocking my head against the wall, screaming “THIS IS AS FAR AS YOU’RE GETTING!!! CAN’T YOU LEARN THIS????!!!!!”.
Eventually, even the most ignorant animal can be trained through repetition.

Every once in a while, someone stumbles onto my path and, for a time, their path merges with mine. I think they’re waylaid into my life for a higher purpose- so they can see the example of what not to do. To see just how much shit someone can have thrown upon them and still be too damn dumb to lay down and stay dead. To view how sad (in every sense) a person can be. And to see how well they really have things.
I have a tendency to try and hold on to some of these better people. They are lifelines, in a way. They are golden strands I try to use to haul my stone soul from the tar. They are my Rapunzels. Is it no wonder I grasp so tightly at these people? Is it no wonder I let some go when I see they lack the means? Is it no wonder the others seek to shake me off? I don’t blame them. I can’t- I’m me.
I don’t care to really try anymore. My trophy cabinet of defeats is oversized & overflowing, and any others scattered about only read “participant”. I grow exhausted of rejection and knowing that any success is fleeting. Towards me, passion, achievement, & intimacy age at an accelerated rate, turning to dust as I watch.

I’m not special. I know this. I have known this all of life. I’m not even special with all the shit in my life- so many have it worse. I am, at best, mediocre. This is why I have no ego- not a real one. My bravado is fake and usually self-deprecating. I know my place in the universe. I will not be remembered in the annals of time. Songs will not be sung about me. Nothing about me, from me, for me shall go on after I’m gone. I am only while I am here.
I exist, many times over, only due to the literal toss of a coin.

My heart beats.
I breathe.
I have mass, volume, and density.
I am.
But I do not live.
I am resigned to survive only.



It’s sad when the reasons to be here don’t justify actually staying.



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