inspiration for the clinically depressed

Ahh, what should I write about today?

I am currently embroiled in a minor financial, and major existential crisis. Unfortunately, I can foresee neither a benevolent government nor god stepping in to offer a blank cheque bail out on my behalf (Ozomahtli! Why hast thou forsaken me? Please grant me this one request, and if not, then the hell with you!). Sure, there's repentance, its closest religious equivalent, but that's such a messy business, with blood and sacrifice and other undesirable imaginary requirements. Life as a globe trotting master thief is an equally unappealing option. Too, much effort. No, it's just me the world, the problem of other minds and a thousand other considerations. But back to the initial twin burdens, they are chronic conditions, not at all acute, unless it's a particularly bad day. I don't even know what today was. Hmm, Apathy is that you? Not helping things.

Am I an extreme pessimist? It seems so. Delving into my psyche I have come to realize that if I were a character from the Winnie the Pooh universe I'd most definitely be Eeyore. This is disappointing for a number of reasons, first of all Winnie Pooh is a castrato , you can tell because he doesn't wear underwear and by the way he talks, there's a salient allegory in there somewhere, second, I've destroyed any credibility that this post may have had by an appeal to he and his compatriots, and perhaps most importantly: Eeyore sucks balls. There's nothing like a healthy dose of reality to crush the spirits of the irrationally optimistic. I have a special calling in life. I'm not complaining. Not any more than usual. We've all got our jobs to do. Authenticity is the new destiny. I'm just living up to my potential.

But where was I? Money, fame, meaning. It's hopeless isn't it? Striving for something that is in all probability impossible. Dieing would be much easier than all of this. But who wants to do that? I wage a constant war of attrition with myself. Fight or flight? Do I look my demons in the eye and laugh them to scorn or do I bend like bamboo in the wind and live to see another day? This is bordering on bad poetry. Death, the final frontier, the undiscovered country, live long and prosper that you may never meet what's his face with the scythe thingy. Death that is the answer isn't it? At least according to Steve Jobs and he knows everything.

I have a grave stone sitting on my dresser inscribed: Loren T N Hopkins, Handsome Jerk, 1979 - . It is a constant reminder that I'm handsome, a jerk and that one day I'll probably die. When I first started going bald, that's when I knew I was mortal (that line never gets old). Gradually my invincibility began to deteriorate along with my hairline, as if I were a nazarite for the 21st century. Like Sampson before me the loss of locks meant no more mojo. Tragically, my fate would be his, for I am incapable of living up to the vow that they of olden time made: I cannot avoid corpses, because I am becoming one. This is a breath of fresh air.

Jobs. Explain yourself: "Almost everything--all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure--these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart." Holy shit I'm going to die. Time do something. And thus it is amen.