It never stops, it never ends, my obsession with producing something, anything, that says to the world I’m worthwhile. It pushes me forward, this unseen force, convincing me that somehow, in the end, I will be able to tally it all up and prove to the world and God and my asshole of a father that I’ve won. I’ve achieved it all.
But what, exactly, might I tally?
I imagine myself not swimming in a sea of gold coins like a cartoon character who has finally made it, but instead hunched over in a dark corner of an unknown room, trying to breathe, trying to tell myself that now, at last, this pain is over.
There will be no celebration. There may be relief. I’m not really counting on it, though. Instead, I will find myself in the place most who die do: inside a dark box, dreams of the living world all but forgotten the moment my last breath escapes my lips.
I think there’s something after, but as I daydream about punching my father’s ghost in the face, or spitting at him, or maybe throwing a drink, a final Fuck You before I go find some different angels to hang out with. It’s hard to understand how I might come to terms with it all.
I conclude that Heaven probably doesn’t allow such violence, so I will have to look up from below, from the place where bad people think bad things and live out eternity, their skins sizzling. It’s hard to visualize myself in either place, and maybe there’s a good reason for that. Perhaps in the end, all of the black and white will disappear, and we will be allowed to recline, to rest our heads, to sleep.
I agree with your sentiment about not being worthwhile unless I am producing or achieving something. I share that sadness.