Walkabout To Nowhere: Conclusion

"What the fuck had happened?" thinks The Man. "Why?"

Something had happened.  

Something had happened to him.  His life had changed.  And the Man could not explain it.

He re-read his journals from years ago. He looked back at the pictures. He was happy then.

But somehow the life he had constructed since - or the life that constructed him since - did not make him happy. Up early. Commuting for hours. Trudging to a job he did not like, empty and hollow. Spending all day at it. But accomplishing nothing. Always rushing to try and get home, see his children, play, be. No time. No time. No time. And all the while at home, feeling unconnected.

Wash-rinse-repeat. Wash-rinse-repeat.
Going through the motions of life, without life's emotions.

Like paper cuts on the soul.

So he had built other things; to feed himself on the beautiful parts. His passions - reading books, playing guitar, writing, music, poetry, thinking, talking and connecting with interesting friends about interesting things: technology, education, social issues, and how to change our changing world. 

But he crammed all these things into tiny spaces of time. 
It wasn't enough, and it also was too much. 
It was fine at first. Busy. Good. 
But then it wasn't. 
And then it overwhelmed, and collapsed upon itself, a black hole.

"But why? What changed? What's wrong with me?," thinks The Man.

Embarrassed and anguished, The Man would drop things one by one by one, withdraw from his friends, from the world. Alone in pain. Alone in frustration.

He stared at his life, at himself. And, like a small child resisting his vegetables, he firmly said "I don't want it." But this made him even more unhappy. Because he didn't know how to change it. And he was scared. That he couldn't change it.

When he tried to think about how to fix it, his unhappiness grew. His stress bubbled. His paralysis became more severe.

He wanted change, and he couldn't change.

* * *

"Maybe," he thought, "Maybe, I'm just not good at life."

* * *

And at the end, there were questions. 

Questions without answers. 

Literally, unanswerable questions.

Like, what do you do when you don't like who you are? 

Like, do you have to destroy your self to save you? 
And like, can you - should you - try to save yourself from the destruction? 
(And how?)