The worst part of it is that I'm disappointed in myself. Who knows what subjective reality is versus objective reality? Who knows what anything is beyond our five senses and our own minds, our own consciousness, and our own perspectives?

We place so much faith in these lives, and we're pulled through the timeline like there's a string attached to our navels, and everything changes around us. Some things we can control and affect, other things we have no control over, everything simultaneously pulled through the timeline to their ultimate end.

I don't remember when the formulation began for me that reality is just a ship in a bottle. It was probably reading "Illusions" by Richard Bach, but of course reading a book does not create a world view. It was just a catalyst, a realization, an articulation of what I already believed.

Who knows what built the foundation in my psyche that would respond to that catalyst? But it resonated wildly that life was more than mere physical reality, and there was more to it than just living it. It was also personal. It is what we design it to be while existing in a state where "we" is not defined, what becomes of us after we die, and what we were before we were born.

It's also karmically driven, but that's another story, never mind...

Then there was suicide which was also hard-wired in my psyche. I don't know how that happened, it wasn't just childhood or teenage angst, although it might have started that way like an egg. It was always there like a strange object in my room, begging to be picked up, examined, investigated, analyzed, understood.

We place such faith and effort into these lives that will fade and pass. And for good reason. These things have meaning; the content of our experience is not empty. The content of my experience is not empty. But what made it something, what gave it meaning, was walking down this path and making sense of these things that have presented themselves to me.

It hasn't been an easy path. Despite being pretty clear on the concepts, I've been walking it often confused and making quite a mess of it. But now I'm telling myself I'm supposed to turn things around. It's over. I lost the plot. Resign and live life the way normal living people envision how it's meant to be lived? Well, what's the point?

So I'm disappointed in myself, now scrounging about, pathetic, to pick up pieces of something I didn't want, don't really care for, and feel I wasn't meant to have.