A letter from underground

To anyone willing to lend a sympathetic ear,

This is my confession: I despise life. I have few friends, little motivation and struggle to find enjoyment in anything. Worse yet, all of this is my own doing — I’ve dug this hole myself, and I have no desire to claw my way back out. I am past the point of frustration and instead look upon my situation with a kind of bitter apathy. For months now, I’ve been waiting helplessly for someone to reach out their hand, and in doing so, yank me from this gloomy pit — a friend, a mentor, possibly a romantic partner. 

Can you blame me? I possess none of the traits that the doers of this world have been blessed with. I do not have a strong will, I am not particularly confident — nor funny — and the traces of the intelligence that I do possess only serve to heighten my self-awareness which in turn heightens my disillusionment about the world. To second the words of a wise, yet similarly despairing man from Petersburg, “I am eking out my days in my corner, taunting myself with the bitter and entirely useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot seriously become anything, that only a fool can become something.”

It’s now 2 a.m. I reflect on life and realize that I am the very person I once swore never to become — I am average, and worse yet, I don’t believe that I possess the agency to change that. In a sense, my life has already run its course, because I have resigned to my fate as a substandard human being. In no long while, I will walk across the commencement stage with a meaningless degree, use that meaningless degree to land an even more meaningless job and use that even more meaningless job to acquire the most meaningless thing of all — money, for money’s sake. 

But such is life, and who am I to change it? I am not writing this letter to evoke pity, although if you feel so inclined, then by all means, look upon me with heartfelt commiseration. In fact, I’ve come to find an indulgent comfort in self-pity, particularly because it requires no effort on my part — I simply choose not to better my unfortunate circumstances, then reflect on these unfortunate circumstances with intense melancholy. 

I guess that’s all for now. Come and rescue me if you wish, but of course, I already know that you won’t — and why would you? I would likely reject your benevolence anyway, for I’ve grown quite fond of this apathetic state in which I wallow. 

But, what if …

… what if I could change? No, I shouldn’t bother. But, what if? What if I heeded those words of Truth, spoken by a lowly carpenter ages ago? What if I accepted life’s burden, and in doing so, bore the full weight of my cross? What if I visualized the person I’ve always secretly envied — the confident person, the outgoing person, the honest person, the person unflinching in the face of judgment — and did everything in my power to become that person? 

What if I embraced myself — not the parts that led me to this wretched place, but the parts that make other people smile, laugh or enjoy my company? What if I realized that one day, I will depart from this life forever, but until that day arrives, I hold this pen in these weak, trembling hands of mine, and as such, can author my story however I wish? What if, in about five hours’ time, before the sun rises, I get myself out of bed — ignoring every instinct that tempts me into doing otherwise? What if, after getting out of bed, I slip on sneakers and walk outside into the biting autumn air? What if, despite a pounding heart and a fettered conscience, I put one foot in front of the other, slowly at first, and then with increasing rapidity? And what if I break into a jog, and eventually, a full-on run?

No, it can’t be done. It can’t be done! How foolish of me to think myself capable of such herculean efforts?! Me, seizing control of my life? Impossible. Ridiculous! Let me explain what will transpire instead: upon waking up, I will realize that all of this senseless rambling — about truth, honestly and self-acceptance — has been the irrational designs of an escapist mind. If I do get myself out of bed, slip on my sneakers and walk outside into that biting autumn air, I will be capitulated by doubt, and subsequently sign off on the unconditional terms of my surrender to life.

Who am I to be a runner? Moreover, who am I to exist in a state other than numbing mediocrity? In choosing to run, I would be choosing a path of self-actualization, and people such as myself have little interest in such pursuits. My fate was transcribed onto my heart long ago, and as such, I am condemned to die without ever having taken that decisive first step. 

But what if … ? What if I did it anyway? And what if I never, ever, ever looked back?

With hope,

T.W.

— October 26th, 2022

P.S. I’m never looking back.