Life.

I suppose I should start writing again.

The past few months have been a blur, thankfully, because if I stopped to pay attention to what I actually want, I wouldn't know what to do. I've barely had a moment to breathe, but I do now, and I realize how stagnant this air is.

I've become a bit of a workaholic because I need distractions. Anything. I need to do something that distracts me from several things that have been on my back for a while now. Because as soon as I stop, they rise from my subconscious and fill my mind. The only solution I've found is distraction. Anything to just make it go away, at least for a little while.

What is it?

Dread, fear, frustration, anger, paranoia, loneliness, a writhing potion of pent up bottled emotions that I don't know what to do with. I just sit and struggle with it until I think of something better to do. It started when I learned about how the universe will (probably) end. It's called Heat Death. In about 10^100 years, particles will be too far from each other to interact, there will be no transfer of energy, no activity, no information, and nothing or no one to observe it. It is the inevitable conclusion that the universe will come to. A complete dilution and deletion of everything anyone knows, has known or will know. Any impact any of us have on the universe will ultimately disappear.

When I learned about heat death, the concept of mortality really hit me. For the first time, I truly realized that my time, influence and experience is finite. I always had a sort of vague sense of  this idea, but it had hit me with a new clarity, and filled me with a sense of urgency to the point of fear and panic. I was filled, and still am, with this overwhelming yearning to mean something. To have a permanent impact on the world, to defeat death, and somehow have my influence break beyond the confines of this doomed universe.

Yet I know this is impossible, so all I am left with is this frustration, this overwhelming insignificance, this overpowering dread. Every night I lie in my bed, knowing that I will be forgotten. There is a point in the future where my name will be spoken for the last time.

I want to explain this to someone, but I also don't want to ruin anyone's day with my problems. So I write.

Beyond this existential depression, however, I find comfort in humanism. I've found that I not only like culture, but the very idea of it. Everything man-made, I embrace. There is such a variety of life that never fails to bring a smile to my face. Every painting, every song, every poem, every building, every car, every street, I look and I can't help but connect with the human that made, designed, lived in, drove in or on them. Humanity is beautiful because despite what everyone wants to believe, there are so many good people out there.

I want meaning in my life, and to leave something behind. Though I may not have the means to do it, I know what I want to leave. I want to tell the world to live.