He knew the sadness he experienced was no different than the sadness experienced by millions of others, but that did not make it any easier to bear. These people were no comfort to him, and he didn't really give a shit about their suffering. He operated on the assumption that they did not give a shit about him either.
The fact that he had to pretend to be happy in the presence of others was excruciating to him. An actual, physical pain. Nobody was happy; why play this fucking meaningless game? Stay isolated; other people are cancer.
And that is how he lived his life. Alone and in the dark, as much as was feasible. Candlelight, sometimes no light, sometimes only the light from the TV. Dark was safe. Dark made sense. Dark hid the truth. And accentuated it.
He had wasted some time with a therapist, going against every instinct in his soul. The only thing this guy ever said that connected with David was that the extreme state of melancholy and emptiness within which he lived his life was dangerous.
No fucking shit.
There was one song he listened to over and over. Birth, School, Work, Death by The Godfathers. That song, to David, summarized life more accurately than any so-called enlightened philosophy. Fuck Marcus Aurelius.
That's all there is to life. Nothing. Fucking nothing.
You are born, you get twisted by your parents, you go to school to study shit you don't care about, you work a job you fucking hate, and you die in your driveway walking out to get the paper the day after you retire.
An extreme state of melancholy and emptiness. Fake happiness is the worst kind of sadness.
David laughed as he cried.
Tomorrow's still another day.
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