Desire

I have no desire for anything, to do anything. I don't wish to see anyone. I don't wish for anyone to see me. I don't want to see the Eiffel Tower. I don't want to see the pyramids. I don't want to visit Europe and get hustled by some woman trying to get me to buy her expensive wine in a street scam.

What is there to do really? People say travel. Like I'm going to get on a fucking 12+ hour flight to Australia with a dame by my side and think it's worth it to go watch a violent kangaroo hop. Who gives a shit? I can see that on YouTube without risking a snake bite or running into a desert tarantula. What am I going to do at Stonehenge? What am I going to do at the childhood home of Isaac Newton? Or am I going to scout Sopranos filming locations like some sad zombie chasing the echoes of popular culture? No point to any of it. No point to culture. No point to existence.

Which is not to say it's not without meaning, that beautiful thing you can ascribe to parts of the world or activities or people. I wish I could be content without a point like so many. But as you know, the opposite of love isn't hate it's indifference. There's no cure for that. In a perfect world with everyone's needs met, boredom still exists, and we have an insatiable, infinite thirst for novelty. You see the beginnings of the culture ready with memes. The glory days of civilization aren't space; it's dreaming about space. You reach the final frontier, but realize there are many, and final frontiers become routine.