Sometimes life is good, and sometimes life makes no sense. And that is the way it is.
I can say so from my very relaxed and privileged situation, and I feel just as relaxed as anyone that know that they will not burn in hell or in the witches hunt fire, which may be worse, for the actual fire of the witches hunt sounds more real and therefore, more painful than any remote possibility of the existence of hell and my possible ending up there. But I will not burn. Not tonight, at least, and possibly not tomorrow either.
But burning, or its possibility, is not as painful as listening to the same demented song through the walls from your neighbour’s, or as having to get up every day at 6am to go perform a job you know it has no value at all. I am no longer that person, I quit my job and I killed my neighbour. Metaphorically speaking. I unfriended him on Facebook after I sent him an abusive text. No, I didn’t really, but some part of me, the really cruel and lame and vindictive one wishes I had done it.
So here I am, writing prose after a really long time, not sure of what is going on in my life (again) and feeling that it could be interpreted as both good and bad, depending on the day, or the direction from which the wind blows, or the cold of that particularly day, or the amount of hours I had slept the night before. But I can’t sleep. I have not had a decent night sleep for over ten months, and there is virtually no reason for that to be the case. I mean, why the hell? Why should I suffer from insomnia? It’s not like I have real troubles or I’m going through finantial hardship that I need to vacate my apartment ASAP and go back to live with my parents, or I’m feeling an existential crisis. I virtually don’t care about anything anymore, and since virtually nothing affects me, I should be the most content and blissful person of all times. Should I not?