Now With 100% more Swamp Imagery!

I have nothing original to say.

I don’t even have an original way to say what’s been said before.

I look for answers and find none. I desperately cling to the scraps of experience I’ve endured, hoping to glean a life lesson, morality tale, or epiphany in anything I do. I don’t do much. I understand nothing; sometimes I trick myself into believing I do. I don’t.

I am not unique. I’m not bad or good, I’m not the smartest or the stupidest, I don’t know great suffering and haven’t tasted glory. I’ve chosen comfort over meaning. I think about meaning, idly, while I lounge and recline. I think about it just enough to make me sick. No great passion burns within. I know I will make it to tomorrow. I always have before. I’ll make it to the day after that too. I will try to make it as painless for myself as possible. I suspect there must be more to life than avoiding pain, but the secret hasn’t fallen into my lap.

I’m sinking into a swamp of failure. My head barely bobs above the putrid bog of mediocrity. I lack the energy to keep myself afloat; I’m just waiting for the scum and frog piss to fill my lungs. I think about reaching for a log, but the filth is warm. I can sink below the algae and rot here forever. I don’t even know enough about swamps to use this metaphor.

This is the part where I’m supposed to discover some fundamental truth about myself or the universe. That part isn’t going to come. I’m not unique.

I don’t want to drown in my metaphorical swamp, but I think I might anyway. I want answers. I want purpose. I don’t know yet if I’m willing to do what it takes to find them. I don’t know what I could possibly do. Comfort is alluring. It’s more than most get. I may die of comfort. I don’t think I want to though.

Am I willing to turn idle thoughts into grueling action? Or can I quell these silly thoughts of something more with enough distractions?

Will I ever have anything original to say?

Will anyone care to hear it?

I think it’s up to me. Nothing terrifies me more, creeping chillingly at the edge of my comfort, than that thought. It’s up to me. Am I capable? Am I willing? I’ll try to be. I’ll try to try to be.