The purpose of living was surely not to spend most of our time in pursuit of small spurts of happiness that resemble contentment but are too fleeting to be anything but pretence. Dissatisfaction has a foul stench. And jealousy is at the root of every disgusting discourse. Knowing what you don't want eats you up on the inside worse than knowing you what you do. It seems too futile to put into words. So I stop trying. The constant consternantion and erratic behaviour which must be explained to someone day in and day out so that there is a proof of conscience is simply proof of the fact that there isn't. Sometimes I stop myself before it becomes tangible. I wish it would break. So that I won't have to touch it. Always tentative, always watchful, always waiting, always afraid. It's as if I read 'Life for Dummies' and am still too dumb to understand it. I doubt the answer will lie in 'Life for Dumber Dummies'.
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