The Second Guess

Somewhere along the line, I stopped liking calamari. At first, it was of no concern to me, but then it became indicative of a bigger problem. A distaste for my own personality. The more I thought about it, the more I found myself pointing out what I didn't like and what I didn't want instead of what made me happy. There was an epidemic of pessimism and apparently I was no exception.

Epidemics like these inevitably lead to an internal inquisition. The constant questioning of one's motives, one's state of mind, what one has to offer. And what I came to notice about my infection was that I'm a glutton. Once it flooded my mind, there was no turning back. On Tuesday, I was already thinking about Friday, about how my days should go by faster, instead of the other way around.

There was a disenchantment about my own life and even my cognizance of it wasn't enough to put it all behind me. And thus began my obsession with the antidote, with a way to figure out why I had become so lackluster about everything. Citing depression was too easy. Making lists was not solving the problem either. Pros and cons were canceling themselves out, as they often do. I had made a habit out of shifting the blame. And as it turns out, that wasn't an antidote, so much as propagation.

What it all came down to was this. There was an expectation of me. Of my accomplishments and lack thereof. Of what I was to mean to others in this life. And then there was a dissatisfaction with all that hadn't been lived up to. And the thing of it was, it was to be expected. On most Saturday mornings.

And twice on Sunday.