Monologue 12

Ignorance is bliss, ladies and gentlemen. Mark my words. Being verbally articulated regarding self-awareness and emotional language, blah blah blah, might help you cope with the weight you've been carrying alone. All of these pretty words may comfort you during darker days, but sometimes they are just words. I find an absurdity in spending years learning the language of suffering only to discover that fluency offers no immunity. Let me tell you something. I've spent so many years reading writers who understood life better than I did. Philosophers, psychology, novelists, etc. etc. I've read enough shit to explain myself a hundred different ways. I've highlighted parts that felt less like words and more like mirrors. So, after a while you start to understand yourself. You can become an expert on your own suffering by mapping every corner of your inner world and become fluent in your own misery. Yet, awareness alone has never guaranteed transformation. And still wake up one morning to discover that I had memorized every wall of the prison and never once found the door. That's the absurdity of it all. We spend years trying to understand ourselves convinced that somewhere there exists a final piece of knowledge that will make everything fall into place That one day you realize that the universe continues to not give two shits about you Despite all our intelligence and progress, we're still just human beings trying to figure out how to carry our own weight without collapsing underneath it. That's fucking comical, believe me. The laugh of someone who finally stopped demanding answers from a universe that never claimed to have any. I find it strangely amusing standing at the wreckage of my own expectations, believe me. Sometimes wisdom feels less like a gift and more like a flashlight in a cave. It helps you see where you are, but it also reveals of how much darkness surrounds you. Happy Men's Mental Health Awareness Month, fellas. I don't have a secret formula for inner peace or an inspiring comeback story. I'm generally just venting, you know. I'm generally just a guy trying to make sense of the noise in his own head, while occasionally helping other people make sense of theirs. And I don't vent as much as I journal, which is a dangerous combo, ladies and gentlemen. Does talking about it solve anything? Probably not. The wound remains, but silence doesn't fix shit either. So I speak. Pushing the weight uphill, knowing it rolls back down, and doing it anyway. because it sure as hell makes the weight a little easier to carry.