2024-10-14
I feel as though I am always lacking. I think what it is is the multitude of reality that is offered to me through the internet, and the knowledge of an outside world that is so vast, and yet a lack of proper knowledge of that world; in that sense, I want to see the entire world, but of course have limited sight and attention, and so cannot see the entire world. Well, and this is just the earth, why there is a whole universe! And then to study history as well...
There is also the idea that things have in some way gone wrong in the modern day; in reality, there is a lot that is better. For instance, I would nowadays disavow to live in a place where modern sentiments, for instance regarding women, are not the norm. For instance, I would dislike to live in a place such as Saudi Arabia. Yet, that was all places before the modern era. In this way, there is only improvement in many areas, and others that lag behind. In terms of the urban environment, I think that a part of it is really that there is a lot of improvement, but because the improvement actually involves a regression to the old norm, and less of a modern fascination with cars, I find it to be more grating.
As a result, I am looking outside of myself for satisfaction, and outside of my present circumstance. I want my neighbour's cherries: that is the German equivalent of our saying 'the grass is greener on the other side' (Die Kirschen in Nachbars Garten sind immer süßer). The difference is really one of possession: in English, the saying implies that the state, or circumstance, is better (the grass being almost a background to existence) where in German it is very much about possession of an object: *my* cherries are sour; *his* are sweeter.
I wonder if a good portion of getting older is just about having a certain self-satisfaction with what is had. For instance, I may tour the world as a youth, trying to find the one thing; yet I return to my homeland as an adult, content with what it offered, and offers, me.
Also: In terms of the thousands project, this is a matter of building satisfaction with no external novelty, only the reward of my own labour. So, I can feel a contentment knowing I have achieved, yet have not any external thing, only the repeated action, and the resultant benefit. In this way, I learn to find satisfaction not in the external thing, but instead in the seeking of success from repetition.
Yet: Longing seems to eternally afflict me. I in a way think that I will be eternally dissatisfied if I seek satisfaction in the things that I can control, and can achieve over a period of time. For instance, I am still not happy as I surpass my ninetieth wordvomit; in fact, I find the contents of the majority of them to be woefully poor; the continuous writing in a way to be a waste of my time; the desire to feel content by a number denoting the extent to which I have dedicated myself to this waste of time pathetic; the relatively low percentage to which I have completed each of the matters pitiful. Even were the number higher, the overarching concerns would not diminish, and in fact would only augment; truly, I would then be very justified in the idea that I have wasted my time! Even the production of poetry produces in me no joy, except in the moment itself; my portfolio is small and not worth regarding; as with the art. My writing is non-existent and I haven't the faculties to produce anything of note; even had I these faculties, they would not be particularly special amongst my fellow men; even were they special, they would be trifling and insignificant relative to grander concerns. Furthermore, these skills do not translate to a good grasp of reality, nor to commendable social capacity, nor yet to important philosophical insight. Indeed, the words I write are altogether worthless.
Yet, I continue to write. I believe I will discover, once I have achieved a certain modicum of success in these ventures, and notice that I have got a large number in all the regards I wish to pursue; that I have drawn often and thereby gained a certain skill in that regard, and have become muscular through repeated visitation of the gym, and have a particular talent for writing, if in my future self, will all serve distinctly not to gratify me, rather to alert me that gratification is not to be found in these matters. Rather, I must likely be happy *by way of being happy*. Or perhaps there is something else that I am missing. Or, I could not wait until these things (potentially) occur, but rather seek enjoyment now.
And the question is really: what does make me happy? I think I am happy when I have something to focus on. For instance, I was happy when I was watching the opera. Or, perhaps I was just distracted, or had a focus. I think I am relatively happy when I am out walking. I think I am happy when I am writing, or reading. Often though, I write due to dissatisfaction, or a poor mood, and the writing is there to alleviate my mood.
When I am working I am not really happy, but rather am in a state where I am jumping from one thing to the other, and yet never really making good progress due to the endless stream of tasks. There isn't a point at which I can sit back and say, "I'm finished". Rather, there is perpetual work, which ultimately breeds dissatisfaction. At the allotment, there is a perpetual source of work, but also continuous reward for that (at least over summer). I am not sure whether the allotment is making me happy or not, though. I'm going to try pick it back up next year.
Is all this too in the weeds though? Is there some secret to being content? Is it to overcome all the flaws I have, myriad that they are? Is it to accept my flaws and my poor mood as a part of my life, and be satisfied with the happiness I can find?
And yet I think, there is such open expression of happiness between people; I notice that women do it particularly. They are open, and happy, and free, and so easily, without rehearsal or script, simply in the moment. I wish I could have that for myself! I wish I could be more emotive, more impassioned, more passionate, more immediate! Is it that I have never tried it? Is it that, today, when I went for breakfast, I asked 'un tavolo per uno, per favore' almost under my breath, and pronounced the grazie in the same manner, and wanted only water not wine for breakfast, and sat there docile and quiet, book in hand? Is that the sort of man I am? Is it unalterable? Is it terminal?
I am not sure if that form of outward happiness correlates to a true inward happiness; yet could it be any worse than my present circumstance?
And I'm meant to be happy on holiday, aren't I? It isn't like I'm not; but I am spending a few hours each day at the hotel, and getting my words out. I think that is just fine, as things go. I don't need to always be outside, and I still don't really know what I want to do when I'm on holiday. Do I have to always be out and about, seeing the infinitude of novelty? Or can I sit and write a little, and explore the infinitude of misery?
Maybe I'd be happier if I just did the former?
Have a good one.