In my favorite spot at the house i inhabit for most of the last two years, i'm hearing waves of inadequacy and helplessness washing towards me with a limping crescendo.
To be more specific: the kind of feeling that comes as lull moments in your existence, giving the hash function of various things like,
that somebody else can do more with the resources you have,
that some years ago you made an extremely misguided move you cannot take back or repair the damage caused by it,
that time is going forward and you are stuck neither in past nor present but the fine line between(à la The Langoliers),
that even your vain search for constant peer-validation will not be enough for the resident hole in your psyche,
that your experiences from past mistakes won't be statistically significant in any crossroad you'll encounter,
that some crucial part will always go awry,
that any time now you can end up dead by some trillion means and should be very, very afraid of it,
that the DeLorean is orbiting a moon right now because they didn't thought about Earth's movement through time-space,
that you should do something about this aggregate of particles that is (unfortunately) your tête.
This bundle hits the spot with shocking precision and leaves me non-functional for a spell, bringing an intense need for lobotomy and consequent installation of debian into your frontal lobe.
It arrives without words, but in the company of a bit of olfactory (the plant compost of the botanical station nearby and basso profundo aroma of black earth), a melodic interval(d#2-c2-b1-a1-c2), and a taste(leftover wine and a trace of dentist's pen-like stainless steel mirror). A slap of Jung's love-child, collective unconcious, chilling the side dish of my monkey-appetite.
After the first contact, when I've regained my composure, i unleash a counter-attack, including but not limited to numbness, misdirection, lies, a presentation (titled "my life is great and how can i make it better? - an analysis based on real life facts and recent UNDP surveys"), oral administration of cocoa solids/assorted ethanol solutions and as one of the fail-safes: booty calls.
Following various successful skirmishes, insurgents are rounded up, found guilty, beheaded, buried in unmarked graves, having their unmarked graves trampled by a legion of valiant horsemen thinking themselves as heroes- doing something great for their nation.
As shown in the music video of the hit song "Thriller" and numerous scriptures, there will be a-reckoning, judgement day, long-dead-but-neither-forgiven-nor-forgotten remnants.
But yeah, a'right, okay, for this time they ain't goin' to cause you no more trouble. They swear it.