The other day I was feeling pretty down on myself. Honestly, this happens often. I’ve always been a very judgmental person, so too often do I find myself the victim of my own idiosyncrasies. During this last episode though an interesting thought came to mind that was oddly a “pick-me-up.” It was almost like telling someone who was worried about death to not worry because someday they will die – a peace of mind in knowing there is no hope. Anyways, here is that thought.
“I am to young to be happy”
Depressing, I know. No time soon will Hallmark being contacting me begging that I join the card writing team. However, I’ve never been one for flowery inspirational quotes – the “If you can dream it you can do it!” crap. Maybe I’m plain rotten, but there has always been a tendency in me to believe that anything which helps one feel invincible or limitless is simply dishonest. Let me explain how the seven words above could have possibly made me feel…better.
I have a thousand hobbies. Anyone who knows me well is aware of this. It is almost pathetic how I jump around like a cracked-out kangaroo (not that I’ve ever seen one…) from interest to interest, focusing 100% on one thing at a time but ten different things a day. Most people mistake this for a limitless love of life or curiosity, and sometimes I buy into their observations. However, during those introspective moments an uglier truth becomes clear.
I have no reason to not be happy. By even the most conservative standards my life is ranked as awesome. But my restless character is not caused by love or passion, it is the product of un-happiness. A lack of satisfaction with myself that causes me to cast as large a net in the world as I can throw in hopes of catching something fulfilling.
Now, how does this play into “I am to young to be happy”? It is a cruel cycle, but only because I am unhappy do I do the things that make me feel happy. For if I wasn’t unhappy, what would motivate to do anything? I do not have someone who I love and care for, nor something. Thus, the only reason I do live a productive or interesting life is thanks to me being unhappy.
Everyones goal is happiness, and very often in recent years have I felt hopeless from my inability of experiencing it. The other day while psychoanalyzing myself, this was the deficiency under scrutiny. I was looking at the day ahead of me and wondering, “why?” What was the point of doing all these things if at the end of the day I felt empty? It was then that I realized that if I was happy, I probably wouldn’t be doing any of the things I do – and that seemed very, very boring.
At my age, I shouldn’t be satisfied – contentment would be a terrible thing. I would be no more than a waste of oxygen if I didn’t feel the need to constantly create and discover. Thus, it is thanks to me being unhappy that I’ve gained all my experiences and skills. Making me the least bit interesting of a person.