I don't believe in miracles. You sexy thang.

I find myself at a sort of precipice. Well, maybe it's not so much a precipice as an extreme of a state of being. I have moments that are short lived like the spikes on a heart monitor where I am in ultimate committment (or noncommittment in this case) of an idea or way of living. Right at this moment I don't believe in anything. I don't believe in God nor Jesus nor Miracles nor aliens nor a higher state of being. I don't believe in the power of dreams or the monster in my closet. I am sterile to it.

It's not even an uncertainty (though it will be tomorrow). It is a definite decision (and it is a decision, not an epiphany, just a decision) that I just don't believe it anymore. I don't disbelieve it. It's not even on my radar for consideration, I think, is a more proper way to put it. Maybe it's the fact that I'm too lazy for the energy it takes to believe in things I can't otherwise see.

I don't think I've mentioned this before in this blog but there is a plague of depression running through my genes. As if depression is a disease and I suppose it is, brainwise. Mother Green has it and Father Green does as well. I suppose saying my entire family is a bit neurotic is a cop-out of a sorts as everyone else's family is mostly neurotic as well. I'd chance to say that the entire country of the U.S. has some sort of depression developed from the plethora of activities available to give momentary happiness.

I've had momentary happiness several times in my life. I've never really gone through a long stretch of constant contentment, though. Not many people have. I've never really felt confident in the strides of my life at any point. I'd like to think there was at least someone out there living life in a way that made them content and that their default emotion was acceptance or forgiveness or something of the sort of satisfied feeling that I never really remember rightly experiencing.

I think my default emotion is apathy, to be completey honest. Maybe there's an underlying sort of malignant doubt lingering in it which really is a dangerous way to be. Doubt is about the worst emotion right under fear (they go hand in hand, going steady I hear) to have, I believe. It causes you to second guess your best intentions. It's sort of like if you're in a car heading toward a wall and you're thinking, "I should stop! Wait, should I?" and before you've balanced the pros and cons you're tomato puree in a ziploc baggy.

And I suppose I just don't care anymore. I'm bored, but I'm so doubtful of myself that I don't realize how bored I am and so it seems like I'm living a very exciting life at times as my body is always playing on pretend threats to my well-being but my mind is stagnant and dying, turning gray and succumbing to others opinions. I was always a people pleaser anyway. It was always, if I keep them happy I don't have to face the consequences to me of them not being happy. I was introverted and self-conversational. I told myself stories and to keep myself attentive I made them more and more exciting. My internal entertainment has followed quite nicely with the external worldly entertainment of sensationalism and over-exageration and repetitive story lines. I'm living in syndication.

currently: Oh ho hum with it.

current piece of writing:
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