On The Satisfactorily Unsatisfactory Matter Of Existing. (Excessively Adult Content, Particularly Near The End. Reader Discretion Implored.)

Arthur Schopenhauer postulated in Studies in Pessimism (if you'll forgive my impertinent paraphrasing) that what we generally view as bad or horrible occurrences are actually the 'positive' element to living, that without things like hunger, heartache and misery we would wither away in a sort of lackluster ennui and quickly perish from lack of nourishment, both physically and mentally, and that time is our one real commodity, though we are rarely capable of appreciating it.

"Every evening we are poorer by a day. It might, perhaps, make us mad to see how rapidly our short span of time ebbs away; if it were not that in the furthest depths of our being we are secretly conscious of our share in the exhaustible spring of eternity, so that we can always hope to find life in it again."

I feel a little pompous and ridiculous for entering this challenge. Others have said what I'm going to say much better than I can, as I've already admitted in the intro. I am naught but a puddle feigning depth, reflecting the sky and attempting to view itself as an ocean. There is no vast expanse, no eloquent soliloquy, no all-encompassing wonder or splendiferous awe in my mildly perilous waters. A sink-hole is the best I can manage. You will not drown in my romanticism but you might sprain your ankle.

...Now I'm worried that you may be getting your hopes up with the promise of colorful language in the title, but alack, my depth contains no Atlantis; no paradise of genius awaits. Give up now. Turn back. It is dark and dank and there are feasibly excessively ugly but relatively harmless eels lurking around the bedrock somewhere ready to tickle the toes of enterprising trespassers. But extraordinary? Me? ...Nay. Extraordinarily ordinary perhaps... Contemptibly quotidian? Intolerably mundane? (Oh I'm halfway decent at a passable self-derogation at least. That's a particularly well-honed talent of mine, I'm quite proud of it...)

So I will make no attempt in this piece to portray myself or my life as outlandishly wonderful, I will instead try to make the preposterous case that the bad things in my life, the grotesquely disturbing things, and even the ordinary dull things, are actually sources of joy after-all.

Firstly, to get the fluffy sentimentality out of the way, so that you know I'm not an entirely derelict headcase, and in order to be perfectly honest, the thing I love most about being me is that I am mother to four rambunctious little earthlings. Though I do comprehend how sanctimoniously disfavorable it sounds nowadays, (in the face of responsible precautionary methods to prevent such occurrences no less) to be proud of something so lowly and barbaric as producing four offspring, they are nonetheless the main source of my pride, joy and satisfaction in life.

But despite it all, despite the fact that I get to wake up to an adorable little beastling jumping up and down on me and saying

"mama! mama please wate up. you have to det up and make mine breakfast."

Despite having staggered out of delectably warm covers (spoiled housewife that I am) and prepared the demanded nourishment,

Despite having witnessed a heart-melting and mischievous smile from the offender and been privy to "thank woos" all round,

Despite the joyful grin plastering my youngest one's face as he hugs my leg "dood-mormim"(good morning) knowing that I'm happy to see him even though he quite obviously has fecal stench emanating from his overnight diaper,

Despite delight welling up in my chest (as I'm dealing with the aforementioned odorous debacle in the other room) upon hearing my eldest son read aloud voluntarily, after all the incrementally good but overwhelmingly flusterating hours I've spent teaching him how,

Despite all of them being graciously sound of body and mind,

And despite having accomplished more than my fair share of the instinctual imperative of sexually reproducing lifeforms...

I am still utterly insatiable.

Oh I've always been a bit too hungry for the various (predictable) intoxicants; Adventure. Happiness. Words. Philosophy. Food. Sex. I always want more than what's good for me. But I suppose that everyone has something. It's like what the fictional character Kenny Ackerman says in Attack On Titan S3:

"Everyone had to be drunk on somethin' to keep pushing on."

In an attempt to break one addiction I invariably move on to another. I've lost 50 lbs of excess fat these past 6 months, but have sprung up other obsessions, possibly worse ones. (My brain is much like this old ramshackle house we're currently trying to escape from, which used to be spider-scourged and after much ado to remove them, in the absence of eight-legged guard-dogs, developed a cockroach infestation last summer...) It is these little troubles and pangs which drive me often to the brink of insanity and disillusionment, but which I appreciate, in my best and least bitter state of mind, for keeping me not only alive but actively living, and granting me the ability to laugh at it all in hindsight.

I don't really know where I'm going with all this (that's the problem with such an alarmingly shallow creature as myself attempting depth perhaps; it gets all muddied. Difficult for us terrestrial lifeforms to do simple things like draw breath, or thoughts, from the abysmal bliss of endless turmoil and existential fear down there...) so I'll end with an admittance.

I feverishly and with earnest disdain for myself wrote a poem the other day. But the subsequent shame and distaste it garnered from my dominant lighter-hearted disposition claimed an ineptitude for describing such slitheringly sickening aspects of my personality and prevented me from keeping it published without explanation. It's disgustingly crude to be sure, but it is honest, at least fleetingly and recurringly honest, to my innermost sanctum. It is also atrociously personal in such a way which causes me to be ashamed and proud of it simultaneously. I derive joy in it's misery. Satisfaction from it's dissatisfaction. Well you can see for yourself. I'll let you see it... Only, if you could find some way to laugh at it (even the smallest of titters would go a long way) I'd appreciate your camaraderie in the endeavor of not taking myself too seriously. Here goes:

My Greatest Vice

All.

I want it all.

And more.

I wallow,

Rumbling at the core

With conscience-killing, overweening, brazen craving,

Ever keening.

I tasted it;

In mind's sweet glint

I've sweated like a craven bint.

A fatted cat,

And still I yearn.

With dire longing; whims that burn.

Never should I be fulfilled.

Fickle say, or weakest willed...

To want more than what good I've got;

To fall,

So worthlessly besot...

Yet how can passion be called weak?

My heart clings fast;

My blood un-meek.

I want...

From wetted cunt to brain,

I want this want to be insane...

But on it lives if mad it be.

It blinds,

And forces me to see.