Tired

How did I get so tired? Step by step, each moment wearing me down a little bit more.

I realise that I have a tendency to think I've been exhausted forever when the truth is that I was fine earlier today.

Yesterday, I looked out my window, and saw the moon hanging low in the sky over the lake. A full, round moon, casting its light on the calm lake, opening up a path of glittering water before me. So gorgeous. I had to go down to the shores of the lake, experience it close up.

A mistake.

After I had slogged through the icy snow to the lake, I stood there and looked out on the water. At that moment, I thought I should experience some sort of epiphany, some revelation that would explode in my head, ignited by the calm vision of the moonlight on the lake.

Well, the truth is that nothing of the sort happened. I looked at the view, thinking that it looked much better from behind the windows in my apartment. I stared at the moon, noticing that it was not quite a perfect circle, but had the slightest of corners to it. The lake was not placid, but had the tiniest wrinkles on the surface, like a sheet of paper ineptly smoothed out. I saw some fragments of ice floating near the edge of the water, and remarked to myself that it appeared as scum on the water.

The sordid truth is that I did not see beauty in that moment, but only imperfection. Perhaps it is my nature, to see the flaws in everything I examine. So many times I had watched the moon over the lake from within my room, always thinking I should walk down to the lake to enjoy it more fully. When I finally did, there was no beauty left to me after I drew out every ugliness I could find. It is as if I idealised the experience, then destroyed it when in its midst.

Perhaps I should leave all the experiences I have idealised as just that, a fantasy. For I have rarely, nay, never been satisfied with what I have found on the other side of the imagination. My mind's eye chooses to see beauty, perfection. My eyes of experience behold nothing but hideousness and flaws. It is the saddest indictment of a man I can think of. A person who finds only ugliness where he imagines beauty. An idealist who refuses to allow his ideals to be fulfilled, not for fear of a loss of purpose, but because of an inability to let reality satisfy him.

I cannot see how I will survive the rest of my life without insanity intervening to preserve my mind.