The Juxtoposition of Sin and Purpose

In light of recent events, of having something I've been hoping for denied to me, and facing yet another rejection of sorts, I've composed my reasoning to place blame on myself. The output being of course, there are two potential problems, that of motivation, and that of methodology. As I refuse to believe the null hypothesis that my options of a D/S relationship are naught. Not at least, in this city, or community. I am however, so, infuriated, exhausted, and weary of scouring the depths of my networks to find someone.

The reasoning, as you might suspect, for this comes from the maelstrom of harsh feelings that develop as a result of being heart broken for no reason, outside disappointment.

The former, being my motivation. I pursue this with such fervor either in bias and flowered vision, or in honest devotion to a found purpose. I've, to date, a single experience to go on, and one that has been said to have been abusive, negative, ill-suited/ and ill-dated, and a terrible experience to build as an example. Yet, it is my only sample. My ex, colloquially known as Voldemortress. Only in that setting, can I remember not yearning for a purpose. My purpose was decided, and it was her. The question is however, do I see that now, years later, through my apologist imagination of what was the experience, or is my memory infallable enough to remember my emotional states in truth. If true, then searching for a D/S relationship continues as it was the only thing I've ever found to make the question of my life seem to make any sense. If False, and my memory and judgement is clouded, then I carry on through a perfumed cloud, hypnotized by something inevitably an illusion, and the journey continues on, innevitably to whatever end it may come to.

The later, being the methodolgy, in which case fair criticism is well and fair deserved. I've long suffered a nursing wound of two inhereit character sins, That of Sloth, and that of Cowardice. I've build up a fabulous cachet and array of excuses and inconvienances to allow myself failure. Promising a scowering of depths of only the shallowest of areas. If my drive and purpose in life is listed above, then how can I allow myself such grievances as this? For someone so inclined to a pursue the dynamic and relationship of a D/S style, as I tell myself I am, I have very little to actually show for it that puts myself at risk. Attribute that the uncomfortability of being introverted, and hard to approach, intimidating and alone, standing for one's self, perpetually an outsider due to circumstance.

Yet, I have felt this before. This disappointment and unwarranted ache. I was 11, and had mistaken carefree affection, for honest desire, and in pursuit found myself dancing over landmines to a much harsh audience of middle school kids. I feel now, as I do then, wondering what I did wrong, and why, for no apparent reason of my own, I'm facing the feelings of rejection and disappointment. Albeit the individual verbiage hits an uncomfortable similarity.

In honesty, the idea of my prospects for salvation going from sole, to nought, does bring strong waves of depression in the idea of having to, once again, start over from scratch. To face only the same harsh disappointments, over and over,  gives rise to great jagged and shaggy outcrops of depression and demoralization that it makes one consider even the desire to make said journey.

In saying as much, I apologize for the cryptic nature. It was ever my style of italicize my vernacular to my mood, therein. In sadness, it leans towards the metaphorical, dramatic, romantic, and fatalistic.

Disposability

It is hard to describe the hollowness that comes from things. After a year of saying I love you too, it doesn't diminish the meaning of the world, but it certainly doesn't carry the same weight. Don't get me wrong, this is not a post lamenting the diminishment of NRE (New Relationship Energy), but given the crazyness that was the mid-late March, things now have calmed down and returned to a nice normal level. A level, I find to be quite hollow and without substance.

A great part of me wants to attribute this to the unfulfilled aspects of my life. Not that I don't have goals, both long and short, but, it all just seems so meaningless and arbitrary. I'm learning French because I want to, and while I' can find enjoyment in that, it is a shallow one. It exists because I want it to, and not at all within itself.

What does one strive for when one's needs and pains are remedied. These goals are nice, but, feel arbitrary and self imposed (likely as they are). Commendable, sure, but I can't take them to the bank, so to speak.

Why do I feel so, pointless in my endeavors? I have friends, great friends. I have a lovely partner, but, at the end of the day when everyone is asleep, I still lie awake at night with longing for something greater.

I...understand..that these dreams of grandeur, are likely the last grasps of the dieing breath of my hopes for a better life. I'm not sure what to think of that sentiment. Part of it seems realistic, and the childish remnants sees it as fatalstic romance. That last bead that if I would only strive for and put my entire energy towards, could make work into some sort of epiphany of a dream for a one way ticket into a better life/higher class/fantasy land.

All my life I've made pragmatic choices. It's a side effect of being given a shit predisposition of choices in life. When all your options are shit, you tend to become realistic, and play for what you can achieve. Having dreams is a side quest to pain, disappointment, and a quick slap in the face from the realities of the world. Now that my pragmatism has played out as it can, I'm out of realistic options, as it were. Everything is my life is, satisfactory. Not fantastic, not great, but acceptable.

The question then, is where do I go from here. Do I accept the realistic options of mediocrity that is my life as is? As, difficult as it might seem, there is solidarity in accepting the fatalism that is the majority of us. Most people go through their lives with unfulfilled desires, knowing that they can't achieve what the want. It seems, at least, progressive and mature to accept that I am as most are, and mediocre at best. That, jives, so to speak, with my mentality.

The, downside, of course, is the sheer depression and sadness that comes with knowing how futile, pointless, and meaningless your life has come to summarize in the vast expanse that is the time you've spent on this planet. Life, is an extravagantly, and a fantastically expensive long time. Most of which is spent doing vast quantities of unremarkable task for no reason. Leading one to question what the point is, if not for something fantastic.

Which all points to the issues of cognitive dissonance. A person has to maintain two separate countering ideas, while attempting to balance the two, or at least, remain ignorant of one. In the one, that life has to worth something, else it isn't worth anything. In the other, the realistic notion that there are seven billion people in the world, half of which are infinitely more qualified to be worth more than you at any given task (statistically).

So does one accept ones own mediocrity, or does one strive for what one will inevitably likely never achieve (at least, by my age standards)? If one opts to accept, how does one then rationalize that depressing, and truthful fact of self-obsolescence.