Life is… …Without Imperfections

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Things like this used to knock me over sideways. I think of you more than I’ve thought of most people. But just like that, I already have something else to think about. Maybe my mind is just too busy to be in love at the moment.

I think that money is an imperfect language because things are always getting lost in translation. But what I mean is that I put a lot of effort into my job maintaining the front-of-store stock on thawed, formerly-frozen donuts and pastries, and that I believe I put a lot more effort into my work than other employees but most of them still got paid more than I do. I mean that I didn’t like how they didn’t care, while I told myself that I would if I was given the chance, and truly, I did care when I was given a chance but not many people cared much, my employers included. I don’t like how little I was paid.

I don’t like how I’ve felt fulfillment in other things that also required effort, but paid me nothing. I don’t like how people don’t pay me to care. Because all I do is care. All I do is give a fuck. All I do is feel obligated to do the right thing, and I’m pretty fucking sure this is worth something and that I’m special and that I’d leave everyone in the dust if I… Decided to care.

All I do is care. All I do is empathize. All I do, I do to keep others from feeling the pain that I’ve felt. This is what motivates me. I want to keep progress running in the right direction, and the only way to do this is by establishing a strong foothold for the next generation, by dealing with our problems so that they can deal with new, different problems. I get lost in words like Art, and Economics. I get lost in myself and realize that I don’t want to do it for me. Helping others is what satisfies me.

I want the world to change. I want people to be paid to care. I don’t want to be paid to do something that is designed to benefit the buyer. I don’t want to separate myself from the responsibility of serving others well. Like frozen cookies out of a cardboard box, have I really served someone well if there is no conceivable way for me to do otherwise? If I can’t fail, then I’ve never really succeeded. I can’t work for a machine and there’s no way for me to contain or console myself of this fact. I can’t be a part of a machine. The world has become a machine. There’s no way to be wrong anymore. I CAN’T CONTROL MYSELF ANYMORE. I CAN ONLY MAKE PERFECT COOKIES. I WIN EVERY TIME. AND THEY DON’T PAY ME ENOUGH TO ENDURE IT.

Everyone gets a trophy, so no one does. No one can do anything but achieve. No one can do anything but win. I can’t live like this.

I want to start a cafe/bar/bubble tea restaurant/hang out for people like me to work at. People who want to own their work and eat too. I’ll hang it up on the wall: “Life is nothing without imperfections.” And if ever anyone asks me what I mean, I’ll explain it thusly.

“Life… is.” And then I scream it out as I cry and cringe and contort every muscle and bone in my body. And the force of it wrecks my throat and has me bleed out of the corners of my mouth. And the blood shoots to my head and my eyes are bloodshot and it reeks of onion soup for some reason. “…Without imperfections.”

It takes away so much from me. But right now, I’m confused. I should probably get some sleep. I have something to do in a few hours.

This is what gives me purpose in life: All this pain that I feel, the killing weight, like giant clods of dust weighing down on me, stalking me and making it unbearable to do anything but one choice thing (It rhymes with nap, but it’s not napping.). And the knowledge that I’m not the only one who feels this way.

I can’t make you understand. I can’t even cry about it. I can’t cry about anything anymore. I can’t even fall in love with a woman I think about everyday.

I have a lot of thinking to do. I want to be alone.

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