My growing disdain for any semblance of a productive life has grown far greater than I could have hoped.**
When once I embraced life with a wide-smiled, open-armed optimism, I have only been left with this inexorable malaise.
It is a personal strife I endure ever day. My existential outlook has collided with the nihilistic propaganda force fed to the multitudes at an alarming rate. The functions, gatherings or otherwise diminutive events of the more fortunate seem to have subsumed the necessity for a more literate or enlightened future.
The only way I see it fit to continue is routine. Routine is the leading most killer in human spontaneity. It also seems to be the leading most reason behind success. Not monetary success (although it can most certainly induce that outcome). I am talking about personal success, self-improvement, finding joy again in my most favourite and sought after past time.
I assume it is within routine where I can find this peace of mind I am searching for.
I assume this because my life has already been stricken by the deadly plight of a routine. One that has caused me to lose my footing. Rather than a routine of value and productivity, I have stumbled upon a routine of self-indulgence, disparagement, and an ever-growing urgency to carry out the most asinine tasks that no other would ever think to dwell on for more than a matter of minutes.
My personal strife is my mind.
My personal routine is my life.
Because of this, I have forced myself into solitary confinement, where my ritualized routine of the self becomes a ritualized journey towards complete insouciance.
We are the future, they proclaim.