Yet...

The thrill of pursuit lives on. It is hardly a miracle to think of it as such. Most days I clamour the hunt and the chase and encumber myself with empty pockets upon return but such wealth to be had in the abstract. If I lose this game, will I lose myself? Or if I lose right now on my volition, will the scar heal in time? Such petty pessimism. If I order an upgrade to deluxe home-grown cynicism, would it all have been better? I play my own mind games, one with no actual victor. So every single time I get the excitement ahead of me, it just twirls in a loop; from joy to sorrow to scorn to joy to sorrow and to scorn again. Perhaps there is a reason, or perhaps there is none, or perhaps a show of life, or maybe a learning to live and lo... see what it does to me? Lost in the reveries of hope that never will be. Left hemisphere, right. You left and you were right. All apologies. I am... happy. No... for how long? It should not be. I...

There is no inspiration to be had in pure bliss. My mind just falters completely, unable to determine the next best course of action, and wanders itself into the wide peripheries of thinking. It is preprogrammed to shut down desirable thoughts and instead conjures its own fantasy of what it thinks it finds desirable. So joy can only really come from the deepest, darkest parts of the psyche, whenever I lose the inhibition to remember. Having that welcome distraction is a gift in and of itself, but it can also be so much more. So much more than I can even dream about. So much so that if I start thinking about it, the recurrent thoughts of failure only bring about nothing but madness to behold, as if this unquantifiable desire is the only thing holding me together and also capable of tearing me apart. Therefore it is wrong to think of this as a pursuit. It is a charade and a prelude to desperation, empowered by my weapons of mass adjectives, marching to the ends of the simp superhighway and beyond. Some of my vocabulary recently indicate how terribly mismanaged and pathetic it all seems from an outsider point of view. Too low to attempt, too pathetic to try. Submissiveness can only lead to a definite eighty-twenty percentile of uneven reciprocation. It is not at all fair even if one succeeds. While success would be a desirable outcome, what good would that do once the intangibles are depleted? To live and love as equals amongst equals. This inordinate amount of positivity sickens me in the long run. I am not even halfway close to succeeding. The long road must persevere as usual.

Two more hours and the drawing board must be authored, and then the happysad continues...