Moving forward

It's been a full eight months since I last wrote anything on this site.

Partly due to laziness and partly owing to my unexpected and unsatisfactory re-insertion into Western society, I've found time, patience and motivation wanting as I passed weeks and then months back in the corporate world, replete with mistruths, amoral hyperbole, mind-crushing conservatism and a sycophantic, uninspiring and delusional desire for social status.Frankly, if it weren't for my friends, I would certainly have gone off the rails by now. And there is certainly a small group of my acquaintances that has undoubtedly come to the conclusion that I have veritably digressed from the path of social inclusion, to a shady world where my loud opinions promise a life of misery and exclusion. I have a sneaking suspicion that my current path, while allowing me once more to sleep soundly at night, is forever making me incompatible with living in general, polite society.

You see, I've just about had it with the values and concerns of the place I presently call home. However, I know the problem to be me, and not the society I'm living. It's just not possible that everyone else is wrong. If the majority of people wake up five days a week, don suit, shirt and tie and head into an office to work an inordinate number of hours, I am not here to decry it. My dissatisfaction with my own life is entirely my own doing, and I am to blame for letting it get so out of control that I almost sunk permanently into a deep well of delusion.

I'm disgusted with myself; that I didn't have the courage to speak out sooner and face my fears. That I sold my sold to a devil I don't even believe in. It genuinely pains me that after four years where I had the fortitude to do what I want and construct a life that was moral and worthy of living, I gratified myself with the trap of Western work life.

None of it counts for anything. I see unhappiness wherever a person's goals direct only his ascent up the ladder of social acceptance. Misery behind hundreds of thousands of closed doors, houses in which inhabitants lead a life of self-absorption and slow suicide, where people venerate illusion and sweep anything that might hint at truth or visceral emotion under carpet, forever held down by upholstered Chesterfields and giant plasma screens bleating the latest garbage masquerading as newsworthy events.

It feels good to breathe again.