I can’t believe feeling the joys are worth feeling the pains because there are far more of the latter than the former.

There is far more pain because I can’t let go of the past.

I can’t let go of the past because I KNOW who and what I am (sure, I’m neglecting the “at this moment” part) is not my “fault.”

I – apparently – did my best with what I had. We’ll skip the absolute contempt I hold for myself given what my “best” has produced.

Which means, by extension, I can’t look to either myself or “them” as blame-worthy. Apparently.

If there isn’t someone or something to blame, then there has to be a “why”. A penultimate reason to exist.

Life happens for you, not to you?

Why? There’s nothing to gain (or lose) if what we come from is already perfect and divine. What could we possibly learn that would alter perfection?

Sensation for sensations sake? If something, or my “soul” chose my childhood for me…… willingly……

I could be good with that, if I could understand why. To help others because I’ve already been through…… yada, yada, yada? Neither they nor I needed to go through what we did.

For my own good? That brings us right back to the two oft’ heard claims: We come from pure love, and, we are perfect and complete already.

There is – apparently – nothing to change.

I’ve been to hell and back several times – the first few entirely against my will – and let me assure you the entire trip, regardless of route taken, is paved with good intentions.

My brain always stalls out on “why.” And so I sit, stuck spinning my wheels.

In hell, comfortable and all as my decadent, poverty-line economic level, western privileges “accident of birth” circumstances might look to a Saharan nomad.

It is with a certain arrogant spite I’ve REFUSE to surrender this need to understand. I’m precious? I’m loved? I’m important and fulfill a necessary purpose?

If there is something God/Universe/Whatever wants or needs me to be doing I’m not going to even look at what it might be. Not much in the way of leverage to get what I want, but it’s all I got.

And I can’t figure out how to let go of that pathological need to know, even though I can see how stuck it keeps me.

I’ll cry – i insist even though I’ve long given up the desire to persist – when i know why.

“Why should i cry?”
“Because your feelings were hurt.”
“Why were they hurt?”
“Well, Dad hurt me because people hurt him, because they were hurt….”
“So what is the original cause of suffering?”
“God. Fate. A big bang. Whatever. The start of it all was the originating cause of it all – good and bad, painful or joyful.”
“So why start it in the first place?”
?
?
?

It’s not living I’m tired of, it’s life. There’s no reason for it.