In light of all the recent controversy, all the hatred, all the death and suffering, I find myself thinking once again thinking of how lucky I am— in between complaining about all the reasons my life isn’t working the way I want it to, that is. Objectively I can see that my life is… wow, so *so* good. I’m monumentally fortunate in ways that even far exceed the fact that my basic necessities are met every day, and have been without fail since the day I was born— which is nothing to thumb your nose at. Yet, somehow, I still succumb to every day whining about things that don’t matter, but things that, according to my personal spectrum of experience, are crushing and debilitating and just really, really hard.
But I need only take a trip to Facebook or glance my phone when a BBC news update makes itself boldly and noisily at home in my notifications– any of the countless media where death and tragedy run amuck– to be abruptly shaken into seeing with more perspective; and I promptly feel guilty and ridiculous, and then *somehow* simultaneously superior to those who complain about their “first world problems”, as though my reluctance to impose my relatively similar problems on others via a public forum is any better than complaining to my friends and family about how much I work, my broken heating unit, or my seemingly dire personal/social problems and the anxiety which ensues. Even writing out these which are essentially my highest concerns at the moment makes me feel like an absurd, over-privileged, typical millennial.
It’s a vicious cycle of self-loathing over what I think is just a symptom of the human experience, but I can’t seem to break it. And THEN there’s the fact that I’m doing next to nothing to make the world outside of my own a better place. I don’t have profoundly important aspirations as far as improving the plights of others, I’m only trying to get my degree and earn a living, and be nice to people when I can. I’m sympathetic by nature, but what good is that to people? Looking on and crying when my idealistic views of the world and how it should look come crashing down? When the truth of it all seeps in and I find find myself asking again, and again, and again, “What’s the point?”?
It doesn’t do anyone any good, and now, in a great feat of situational irony, I’m whining about whining and doing it in a public forum. Where will it end?!
I think this is the part where I’m supposed to come up with some great revelation, where I’m supposed to say that as long as I’m doing what I can and spreading the love, then that’s enough and I’m a good person. Well, if I believed that I wouldn’t be inclined to write this in the first place. My best doesn’t seem like enough and my problems seem both incredibly imposing and laughably insignificant. It’s uncomfortable. It’s inevitable. It’s natural, I guess.
Anyway, that’s how I feel.