You’re fairly certain that life has passed you by.
As in, you don’t understand how the world works any more, and maybe you never did, and it makes you sad in a way.
As in, you’re playing a game that only elite level players play and you have no hope of ever truly competing with them.
As in, you stare out your car window and feel a thing in your tummy that’s a feeling you’ve never experienced before and you assign the meaning, “I have run out of chances."
And the glowing signs above the businesses suddenly don’t make sense and you’re not sure if they’re even real.
Being an undesirable entity is an inevitability of everyone, you know this, but it’s not comforting because you can only see three feet in front of your face and you don’t give a shit about anyone else’s experience.
Like, you look at a lady walking a dog on the sidewalk and briefly wonder what she’s dealing with, her problems, her experiences, her worries, but only briefly, because you go back to thinking you’re the only one with problems and uncomfortable feelings.
And if a truck were to come along and run over the lady and her dog, you’d keep driving and keep your mind on your own labor.
Like, you’ve reached the edge of your understanding of technology, and trying to keep up feels like getting trampled by younger people with fresher smelling hair, shinier penises, tighter skin, brighter outlook, less baggage, more enthusiasm for all shit in general.
They already know and don’t care that you’re in the way; they’d rather run you over than help you out.
And that’s why God created places for old people to go when they get tired of being run over by everyone who want to move faster than them and no one has time or energy and mental capacity to deal with them any more.
So they get shuffled off to a place called a “home” where indifferent medical people say indifferently, “hello,” to them everyday and inject them with medicines to keep them from screaming all day.
Their reality is your future.
You watch the girl at the end of the coffee bar, full of youth, full of hope.
She looks at you and you don’t care any more so you stare right back at her and she smiles and you still don’t care so you keep staring and she looks away and you keep staring and she looks immediately back and you still don’t care because your mind is so littered with garbage that you can’t move it out of the way to just enjoy the experience, it always has to mean something, it has to result in a favorable outcome, and you can never just enjoy the smile of another person because you want it to mean she wants to fuck you and if it doesn’t mean that in her head also then it further means you’re a worthless old man not worthy of anyone’s attention.
Yet you have proof to the contrary, lots of it, and you don’t feel particularly old, and you don’t really look too old, and you still have aspirations and things to accomplish and things to do and people to love and money to spend and life to live.
You have plenty of everything, more than enough, more than most, but the garbage in your head, “will someone come clean it out please,” you think to yourself as you continue to look at the girl at the end of the bar who is now indifferent to your existence and looking at her phone and now you care because her demeanor confirms everything you think you know about yourself to be true.
This is why you’re tired all the time.
This is why you have a hard time sleeping.
These are the things you worry about and fear.
Searching for meaning is the Devil’s way of stabbing His pitchfork in your rectum and forcing you to watch a television show about a lovesick boy who spends most of his time moping around waiting for this one girl to want to suck his dick.