In my misery I excel. I only know how to be mediocre in my contentment, if I am lucky enough to stumble upon it. For what is contentment rather than being ignorantly satisfied with the haphazard surroundings of meaninglessness that to one attributes their life? Again, my ability to revel in this sty of mediocrity, the way swine marvel at the satisfaction of their mud and filth, is nothing but that: mediocre.

Excelling in the intensity of each end of the conscious spectrum of vivacious existence is sometimes too frightening a self actualization to reflect upon. For sometimes I am just too tired to step outside on the doorstep and into insanity when I could easily crawl back into bed and avoid the folly and fervor that my existence has come to. Yet this resort back to mediocrity is just a temporary relief from the stabbing pains of consciousness and never really results in an absolute. The stink of the sty that commonplace humanity is can only be tolerated for so long before vomiting need be induced (Thank you Mr. Pessoa). In a moment of egocentricity or intellectual snobbery (as the fellow camaraderie of the sty would say), I look down and realize it is too filthy a place in which to let my boots get muddy. I turn my back and greet the door step. Instead of a genuine desire to embrace my nature as a bipedal being of acute consciousness and extreme veracity, I set forth not in this light but in repulsion so toxic, I hasten to get as far away from this place for as long as I can.

Ultimately these escape plans are drawn up on account of losing my ability to suffer. Those who live in a constant state of mediocrity never feel the blister of ice or the burn of the sun on their skin for they are too dumbfounded to recognize these intensities – they instead feel nothing at all. All my life, even since I was a small girl I have been drawn to suffering as some girls are drawn to the convent. Suffering, (which I shall expand upon later in definition) like Descartes’ ability to doubt, proves the existence of the self as through suffering we know we are alive as there must be something there to suffer. Feeling oneself alive therefore infringes a sort of masochistic meaning upon the act of suffering: I am drawn to it; I cling to it like a shiny coin, a glimmer of light to give my existence meaning.

Perhaps this is the answer to my questioning for why I constantly pursue that which makes me suffer and the satisfaction gained from such pursuit. I constantly refuse to live my life in a mediocre fashion, letting each day pass unnoticed in sedated apathy and instead would drive a knife into my own side just to feel life and this desire for instant sadistic self-gratification. After so many scars I know no other way of existing. At least suffering, though not as accommodating as bliss, is better than feeling nothing at all.