The lingering threat of something wonderful
There’s very little that I can think of more depressing than possibilities. It’s intoxicating to wonder how things will go, but it’s also sort of bleak—because it feels like life is trying to have meaning. And I don’t buy that idea. I used to say, “we have to make our own meaning.” But I don’t believe that anymore, because if we could all make our own meaning, we’d have all done it by now. I’d have made my meaning jerking off every morning and been fulfilled. Possibilities are a cock tease, because there’s always the possibility that life will get better, which is agony. The tedium and tininess of life would be so much more palatable if not for the lingering threat of something wonderful.
