thoughts on uncertainty

written a bit ago; decided to put my existential crisis on paper. have fun!

I’m scared to write this.

I’m scared of what’s going to happen today, tomorrow, and every other day after that. But tomorrow is another day. Right? If I do what I’m supposed to, when I’m supposed to, how I’m supposed to, everything will be fine. Right? I’m not so sure about that anymore. In fact, I’m not so sure about anything anymore. Uncertainty scares me. It always has, because it’s a part of the unknown, and I’m a human, and humans (I’ve been told) are just naturally scared of that which they don’t understand or that which they don’t know. And everything is uncertain. There is little to no certainty in my life, or any of our lives. That’s what scares me. But if I look at it from the perspective of one of the only definitive things we all know of, everything begins to make less and less sense. Death. I’m talking about death. We’re all going to die, aren’t we? That’s something everyone knows. Very few people live past one-hundred. I’m going to be dead by the end of the century, and that is definitive. That is the only thing I know for certain in life, and yet, just like the unknown, it scares me. Why? It’s seven in the morning. I know I have to follow the routine. I know that, by obligation, by law, because of the fact that it’s mandatory, I need to follow this routine, or there will be consequences. I sleep. I get up in 3 hours, I go to work on learning things that I’ll forget by next week for a few more hours, I go home. I eat. I sleep. The process repeats. I’m so bored of it. I’m scared, yet I’m fascinated by what life has to offer me. And it’s times like this, where I’m alone, the only sound being the low drone from the air conditioner, the sound of my fingers tapping the keyboard, and small background noises, that I realize how alone I am. But I’m not, am I? I have… friends. Family. My cat, that I don’t care for nearly as much as I should. I have plans to make, people to see, things to experience, songs to listen to, knowledge to discover. This is exciting, this should be exciting. Why isn’t it exciting anymore? I have a love-hate relationship with reflecting on the past, but I remember when I was a kid. I remember the sights, the sounds, the smells, the emotions I used to feel. How bright everything was, how lively life looked through my rose-tinted glasses. Some things, I remember clearly, like the layout of my favorite house that I’ve lived in. Other things, like my cousin’s death, I remember less clearly. I wonder what part of my brain is in charge of choosing which memories to polish. I wonder why the memories that should’ve stuck are so dingy and lifeless now. I can’t see them clearly anymore. They’re fogged up, and it’s as if the fog is on the other side of the glass and I can’t rub it away. The good things have been replaced. The silly, futile worries I used to have have been replaced with things like seasonal and situational depression, existential loneliness, mental illness, and anxiety. Things no person my age should have to deal with. Not yet. Please, not yet. And yet here I am. Knowing I have things to do, but not doing them. The fear of beginning, the fear of not knowing where to start. The fear of the domino effect, knowing that everything I do or don’t do has some kind of minor or major consequence (whether positive or negative) on my future and my quality of life. These are the things I fear. I am not scared of the dark. Or heights, or spiders, or demons, ghosts, and ghouls. I’m scared of myself. I’m scared of the future. I’m scared of you. It’s not easy to write anymore. I fear I’ve lost my abilities, I fear I will not amount to anything because of it. I fear everyone I know and everyone who’s ever said they enjoy my company are lying to me, constantly. Because how could you know? Never knowing a person’s true intentions is scary, isn’t it? You open yourself up to someone, unlock the door, and suddenly you become vulnerable. They can hurt you now, because you’ve given them a piece of you. You break off a piece of yourself, split it in half, give one of the halves to the other person and say, “Here, take this. We can share this bond, if you’d like, for however long you’d like. Do with it what you will.” They do the same. I think we call that friendship. It’s what makes us less lonely. It’s what makes the unknown a little less daunting. Knowing that there’s a “we” you can hold onto. That we’re all connected somehow, born from the cosmos, or from something else, with free will to think our own thoughts and to choose our own actions. Companionship. Friendship, love, things that could evolve into all sorts of other things. Platonic love, romantic love. Familial love is something you’re born with, but even that can break. Because everything is temporary. Right? What a terrifying thought. Imagine how much you take for granted each day. The bed you sleep in, the water you drink, the food you eat. Privileges that other people may not have. But what about the people you love? As each minute passes, the minutes eventually turn into hours. The hours into days, the days into weeks, months, years. You always think there’ll be another day, and then suddenly what you had was gone. So with all of this to be grateful for, why do I still feel alone? The colors that used to be vibrant and bright are already turning gray. Eventually, so will I. So will you. And though I’ve never been a fan of pessimistic nihilism, I’ve realized it’s a reality we all have to face. Or not. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You can find a new, better pair of rose-tinted glasses if you find the ones you used to wear became dull. You can walk through life, blissfully content in your ignorance, if you tried hard enough. I know I’ve tried. I know many other people who have as well, but most come up with nothing. It’s the price we pay for being self-aware. Sometimes I wish I were never born. Sometimes the nihilistic part of me surfaces and resurfaces, making me question the point of trying. Other times, I’m okay with the thought of being insignificant. It’s hard to choose between the two. I don’t think I’m on either side, honestly. Undecided. Uncertain. And now, here I am. I’ve come full circle.