I’m in a state of transition in my life. I will probably be exploring new towns and new adventures sometime in the near to mid future and my desire to do much of anything in my current town is dwindling. Such stagnation (and anticipation) renders me fairly impotent and desiring anything to satisfy my ennui, my eternal boredom. I’ve returned to the realm of video games, choosing games that satisfy my need for stimulation in the best way possible. Just five more minutes, I tell myself, as five minutes turns into six hours. It may not be the most productive use of my time and no history will certainly be made from doing such, but it keeps me occupied. It does not satisfy the beast that wants more, however. I still want anything to make this life worth living; I want that one fix that will cure my boredom for good.
Psychopaths reach out for anything to satisfy their “shallow” lives. By shallow, I mean that there exists a constant disconnect between one’s actions and the satisfaction gained from those actions. I have nothing to prove at this point. I’ve lived a life full of accomplishment and achievement, but yet none of it registers as worthy; none of it registered as entertaining or satisfying during those moments either. We are corpses, reanimated, searching for anything to provide meaning or for oblivion to end it all. When neurotypicals say they are bored or unsatisfied, they merely turn to another activity. Maybe they pick up a book or a new hobby and then the listlessness fades away. These are not options for the psychopath. Everything is equally dull. Everything is equally without worth. We roam the lands, looking for anything to provide mental sustenance, and we are condemned always to find nothing.
I want that one high before I die. I want to feel, even if only temporarily, that this life is lived by something more than a husk of a human being. This isn’t depression, per se, but rather a damning realization that there simply is nothing that will register as satisfying. I can play the video games (or watch movies, read books, or any number of other activities) and remain occupied, but all that is doing is making time move faster toward my own inevitable demise. Whenever I come close to feeling positive emotion toward an activity, I find that I simply need more. Something grander, more exciting, more satisfying. It’s never enough though. I crave one fix and such a fixer simply does not exist for me. Tick tick tick tock. May the clock ever increase its speed, for in death I will have nothing more to crave.