I went two days without posting anything, and some of you might wonder whether I went out of town again. No, I’ve been here all this time. I’ve just been true to my statement of not feeling any pressure to talk or write because there are no negative consequences if I stay silent and I know that my few regular readers not only have their own lives but will be patient with me to the extent they remember to read what I post here. But I have still been violating one of my key personal rules by thinking about the future much more than I want to. That trip out of town was so revitalizing that I want another one and am spending far too much time thinking about when a good time to take it would be.
The focus of the trip, both past and future, is something that people who are still members of society might consider pathetic: a hotel room. The hotel room I had on my last trip was basically an ordinary, if nice, hotel room, with a good view out the window, efficacious climate control, good lighting, a clean bed, and really good coffee. But it was my own space, which I controlled completely as long as I stayed within the hotel’s rules, where no one was allowed to parent or belittle me, and where I did not need to permit entry to anyone unless I so wished. And my physical and mental health in that hotel room were utterly perfect, as if I lived in a novel epoch in which I were no longer the slave of little white prescription tablets and the buttholes who prescribe them. In that hotel room I experienced autonomy, and, even though the dream of ongoing autonomy is forever lost to me, having a brief spell of autonomy still brought me back from the dead for a brief time.
Of course, the same effect could be achieved with a little 200-square-foot bachelor apartment no bigger than a hotel room. I could easily have perfect health both physically and mentally on an ongoing basis at no harm to anyone. The real key is no longer being trapped in shared accommodation with incompatible housemates, where I must endure being inappropriately parented and constantly denigrated and reminded of the fact that people think I am a worthless cripple; as well as no longer being forced to remain in a city and conurbation I have come to despise because of its people. But the perversity of the powers that be requires me to remain trapped here, and so I must find a way to escape for brief periods of time once in a while. There can only be a handful of such escapes between now and that fatal heart attack in late 2019 or early 2020 because of finances, so, of course, they will be the focus of all my thoughts while I rot here in this chair at this little plastic table my computer display sits on.
It is ultimately the perversity of my own nature as a living bag of meat that is the topic of this post. I decided rationally a long time ago that hope is destructive, that any efforts I made would be futile because they would be thwarted, and that I need to achieve resignation and serenity. But the brute animal inside me refuses to stop hoping, refuses to give me peace from futile effort, refuses to stop forcing me to engage in the stupid waste of planning for tomorrow. It is really the same contemptible bag-of-meat brute animal instinct that forces me to continue breathing and eating and defecating and sleeping against my will. And so, ultimately, I am the slave of the animal in me, which obeys its own Hollywood movie morality despite the truly human morality of peace and acceptance that I would rather choose.
I guess the only true horror would be if I turned out to be immortal, and so did my father and brother, and this hell of entrapment continued forever. But not even the evil filth that controls society can make that happen. No matter how they seek to abuse me, sooner or later I am going to naturally and effortlessly find the peace of nonexistence, and be free not only of them but of everything. It’s something to look forward to after all.