I Am Tired of Being Me
I wish to declare, for the sake of the general record, that I am tired of being me. Every day it is the same thing, without variation. Same head, same hair, same face, same eyes, same nose, same mouth, same voice. Same arms, same hands, same fingers, same legs, same feet, same toes. Same thoughts, same dreams, same fears. It has not always been this way. I used to regard myself as being at least mildly appealing, but lately I find that the whole situation of being me is, at best, intolerably wearisome. I have, to put it as bluntly as I can, become utterly stale. I currently have no more appeal than a dry slice of moldy bread.
Perhaps it is a question of my advanced age. As I have grown old, it seems that I have become too familiar with the mundane elements of my own character. Everything that I am is always the same. There is no longer any mystery in the day-to-day process of being me. I therefore must accept the tedious truth and unhappily acknowledge myself to be a fleshly repository of grim sameness. I know who I am, and, quite honestly, I have lost all interest in myself. In addition, I presume that my ongoing sameness also is a cause of annoyance to everyone who has the misfortune to be acquainted with me.
At times, the unwelcome condition of always being the same can threaten to completely overwhelm me. Whenever I feel that I cannot endure my sameness for another moment, I sit down and have a cup of tea. (The same brand of black tea that I have been drinking for as long as I can remember, using the same tea bag in the same cup.) That brings a small amount of relief for a short time, but it does not prevent me from falling back into the same feeling of sameness after my cup of tea has been consumed. The heavy affliction of sameness is not easily defeated.
I do wonder, though, whether the peevish manner in which I am inclined to view myself might be unnecessarily harsh. Have I been altogether too hard on my sameness? Have I wrongly perceived myself, grossly undervaluing my perpetual regularity? Could it be that my unrelenting sameness actually signifies a high state of pure excellence? Am I not a person of unusual fortitude, setting a singular example of unyielding steadiness? Have I not boldly established myself as a stalwart figure of distinct courage, holding out against the ceaseless force of reckless change, while others weakly abandon their own sameness?
The problem, however, is that no matter how I choose to look at it, my sameness always remains entirely the same. It can be celebrated or condemned, hailed as a shining virtue or reviled as a shameful failing, but it is always the same. Hence, my earlier declaration that I am tired of being me. Even that particular stream of thought, which constantly runs through the dreary topography of my mind, is, in itself, merely another representation of sameness. Still, the more I think of it, the more I am moved to conclude that I should not complain. After all, better same than sorry.
Perhaps it is a question of my advanced age. As I have grown old, it seems that I have become too familiar with the mundane elements of my own character. Everything that I am is always the same. There is no longer any mystery in the day-to-day process of being me. I therefore must accept the tedious truth and unhappily acknowledge myself to be a fleshly repository of grim sameness. I know who I am, and, quite honestly, I have lost all interest in myself. In addition, I presume that my ongoing sameness also is a cause of annoyance to everyone who has the misfortune to be acquainted with me.
At times, the unwelcome condition of always being the same can threaten to completely overwhelm me. Whenever I feel that I cannot endure my sameness for another moment, I sit down and have a cup of tea. (The same brand of black tea that I have been drinking for as long as I can remember, using the same tea bag in the same cup.) That brings a small amount of relief for a short time, but it does not prevent me from falling back into the same feeling of sameness after my cup of tea has been consumed. The heavy affliction of sameness is not easily defeated.
I do wonder, though, whether the peevish manner in which I am inclined to view myself might be unnecessarily harsh. Have I been altogether too hard on my sameness? Have I wrongly perceived myself, grossly undervaluing my perpetual regularity? Could it be that my unrelenting sameness actually signifies a high state of pure excellence? Am I not a person of unusual fortitude, setting a singular example of unyielding steadiness? Have I not boldly established myself as a stalwart figure of distinct courage, holding out against the ceaseless force of reckless change, while others weakly abandon their own sameness?
The problem, however, is that no matter how I choose to look at it, my sameness always remains entirely the same. It can be celebrated or condemned, hailed as a shining virtue or reviled as a shameful failing, but it is always the same. Hence, my earlier declaration that I am tired of being me. Even that particular stream of thought, which constantly runs through the dreary topography of my mind, is, in itself, merely another representation of sameness. Still, the more I think of it, the more I am moved to conclude that I should not complain. After all, better same than sorry.