A letter from May 15, 2025

I am a shallow man. A regretful man. I am seeking help from every person I meet, yet I would never accept it even if offered out of the purest heart. I indulge in vices, yet do nothing to compensate for it. I complain about the state of affairs almost constantly to others, and all the time to my own self, but I never call it complaining. I call it a mere stating of facts, as if the reality surrounding me would be exactly as I depict it in my ramblings. But I am a foolish man. I am foolish in believing there exists a solution to all of this... that there exists one singular all-encompassing thing that I can do in order to resolve all conflicts in my life. I am a foolish man. I am fooled by my own rationalizations, believing my train of thought to be impeccable and flawless, when in fact I have become an expert in deluding myself with a vastness of reasons, that I cannot even begin to comprehend, each and every reason being so carefully chosen that deconstructing it would tear me apart, it is simply too painful to do it. I am a foolish man. I am fooling my own self into thinking that if I were to really try, I would surely overcome this adversity, that surely, if I tried hard enough, I would come out victorious, that I would win not only the fight, but the whole war. But I am a weak man. I am so weak that I am afraid to confront my own thoughts, to go to sleep without all sorts of distractions numbing my brain into exhaustion, in order to be able to fall asleep. I am so weak that I am afraid to close my eyes, in fear of what I will see. I am afraid of the monsters of regrets and demons of failures that crawl up from below, that haunt me every waking moment, leading me to adopt stronger and more damaging vices. I am so weak, I would not dare look even one of them in the eyes. the simple thought of coming face to face with one of them sends and instant response to my brain, instantly triggering the fight or flight instinct, naturally, only one option is truly viable here. And still I am a weak man, when I know I must fight, when I know there is no other way, when I know I mustn't succumb to such intangible dangers, I am still a weak man. And yet again, I am a shallow man. I write this as if it were some great piece of writing, cozying to the feeling of comfort provided by this thought, thinking that I truly wrote something marvelous, that no one else ever expressed such feelings in such manner, that I have finally done something noteworthy. I am shallow in such manner, thinking deeply about things, diving deeper than any other person into ones own psyche, reaching unexplored depths in this ocean of thoughts, yet you would not dare explore even a singular wreck that lays untouched at the bottom. How would I ever dare, since even I don't touch it, others will never know, how could they? And how could they, when I describe it in such manner, though none know that this ocean is merely a pool I dug myself, that I only dive in at night, when the light cannot reveal how shallow the water is, when it's dark enough to be unable to tell apart the muddy colored walls from the unknown of the deep ocean. And still I am a shallow man, thinking this piece will lead to some sort of grand revelation, that it will become something to propel me forwards, through these thick walls I so meticulously built for myself, and far into the exciting adventure one calls life. Yet I am a weak, shallow man, getting drunk from my cup of achievements, and ignoring the cask of milk that is my failures, not wanting to admit that there is no wine inside. Perhaps one day I will finally throw it away, unless I chug it before.