Our Familiar Bed of suffering

Today is Thanksgiving.

“Just another day” as he says in Platoon would say.

I’m so tired of struggling.

Life is struggling.

Life is suffering.

Suffering means discontent. That’s what the Buddha meant.

I’m discontent. I will always be discontent. Unless I want to huddle away like a hermit

Like a mole.

Like Yoda? At least I’ll have my own planet.

Like someone who is afraid of the world. Because in the end, the world will break your heart.

I want to scream out at the world that I m suffering. But the world has its own problems.

I have to get over my wounded ego.

The brain injury totally fucked my life.

My life is good.

My life is suffering. It is discontent.

We all suffer from discontent. That is the nature of life on this planet.

On this world. In this world. Our world.

My world. The world as I percieve it. That’s all it is.

Everybody has their own world.

Everything is subject to experience. Memory is faulty at best.

Being kind to one another is the only way.

Would I be dead or in prison or in an institution if not sobriety, my family, my youth, my childhood?

I would. Wouldn’t I?

Would I not also fly to Kenai this morning, dine with pixies, grow different wings? Copulate with a school of fish?

This is my world. This is my suffering. This is my discontent.

I will not feel guilt anymore because of who I am.

I’ll just quit smoking.

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