I think wise people are all the same, and I think anyone with that many experiences will converge to the same wisdom. An averaged-out boring template of a person. An indifference by knowing happiness will be followed by misery. A calmness by knowing misery will be followed by happiness. But the greatest wisdom is that little evil overcomes great good, and there always is little evil in the world. There is an atom of depression in every wise person.
I am too old to lie to myself, but young enough to reject others’ lies. Most of the potential is gone. I have acquired some wisdom, if only by the sheer number of my unsuccessful attempts. But can an old man push a boulder he couldn’t push in his youth?
Maybe this is the start of my acceptance; this is admittance. With an amount of honesty that only a wise person can have, I say that I cannot look in the mirror and say, even unconfidently, that there is much potential left.
The little voice, the slightly evil one, is speaking. Though it’s late there’s still time. And it’s better to leave wondering about how great the future could have been, than to leave bitter about how terrible the past was.
The little voice is a young man now, and I don’t know if I can beat him in his prime and in my disciplined apathy.
I used to be a better debater. My most sensible argument was that difficulty is the price of greatness. Suffer now to rest later, and it’s better to have the last laugh.
But the voice is telling me a different narrative. A man eating pebbles, and saving the cake he has for the end of the year. He wanted to earn the cake and be deserving of it. By the time he earned it, his stomach was so hardened; it craved nothing but pebbles. The cake, it was rotten and filled with bugs by then.
The plug is pulled on those who can’t experience life, but what about those who experience the worst of life?
No, they must live to preserve others. To give happiness, something they don’t have, to those who have hope. They spend the rest of their existence like that, mere objects.
The plug isn’t pulled when the patient is ready to die, but when the decision-maker feels less bothered by it.
The brave ones are in a better place, the cowardly keep waiting for something unknown at a time unknown.
If I die a miserable bitter old man, heaven will have to exist just before I die.
The night was darker than average, and in my dark room what I feared most was invisible.
My thoughts were summarizing all my memorable experiences. It was all tiring, both living them and recalling them.
I heard familiar voices outside discussing general matters.
Am I dead? (“It’s just a chemical imbalance in the brain. When there’s something wrong with your stomach, you take medications. It isn’t different with the brain.”)
I cannot deny this evil feeling I am trying to keep hidden.
I am evil, inherently evil. I can see the big picture now; all these memories fit together. They’re telling me the truth. I am evil. (“Remember to say: I am ALLOWING these thoughts to negatively affect me.”)
I am tired of living and recalling, and this is a reasonable time of the year to feel tired. This isn’t patience, it’s uselessness and wishful waiting. You were right, Steve, you were right all along. (“Give the bad voice in your head a name. Call him Steve! Now whenever Steve is talking to you, catch him. Call him on it. Say it in your head: “Steve is talking to me again.”)