When I lived in Baltimore I used to run a website called Octonaut. It wasn’t really about anything. I wrote little stories and reviewed stuff. No one ever read it. When I didn’t feel like writing on it anymore, I destroyed it.
But I kept everything I had written. I’d made copies of all of it, though I’m not sure why. I couldn’t stand reading any of that crap—which is why I killed the thing in the first place.
Well, listen: I just found all the essays I’d written way back then. I read through a good chunk of what I had. I still don’t like most of them, but some of them are all right.
What was comforting to discover (if anything about this can be said to be “comforting”) is that I’ve felt that same way about life on earth, and people, or whatever, since I was a kid. It means something always seemed off to me, even when I didn’t have the vocabulary to say why exactly or the experience to back it up.
That’s good! I’ve always been me! I’ve always felt uncomfortable!
I remember my father telling me once when I was younger, and again when I was older: “It’s good that you feel uncomfortable. You shouldn’t feel comfortable with what’s going on. It means you’re not part of it.”
Hooray! Too bad everything still sucks a whole bunch.