Isn't the sky so big?

Work went by quickly enough. They had me sweating in the back, cleaning out from behind the storage racks in Grocery Receiving. It was hard work, but in being so it made the hours go by quicker, as opposed to droning on as they usually do. However, there was still enough drag in time to give me lots of time to think. I was alone time, with only my thoughts and my cleaning supplies as company. I began to ponder about my managers. If I left right now and just walked out of the store...how long before anyone would notice?

Would they care? Would anyone there?

Then comes stage two of the same question: if I were gone tomorrow...who would notice or care? Aside from my father, just who, if anybody, would be touched by my death? Just how insignificant am I? I feel like I just blend in and while that's usually exactly what I want, sometimes there are situations where I would like to be noticed in a positive way; my existence noted and appreciated.

I generally hate people. I loathe them. I look at the massive majority of the social dregs that trundle into the store during the night and I usually feel either disgust or pity. But sometimes I envy them. They have friends. They have lovers. They have lives that encompass more than just their solitary existence. Mine? How far spread is my circle of influence? Is there any influence at all? Or am I just a whisper in a wind and when I'm gone will I only be 'that boy'? Even then, how long will that memory last? A decade? Half a decade? A year? A week?

Would there even be a funeral?

I've had these thoughts before, of course. Who hasn't at some point during their years of teenage pretension? But as opposed to being fueled by angst and depression, this time my questions are fueled by pure curiosity.

What impact has my life had on the world? What impact will my death have?

I guess I'm really questioning the futility of living in this modern age. Now, I understand that life in this age is more convenient than any other time before us, thansk to technology. But is it really worthwhile? Why in the world should I be excited to go to work in some homogenous office at some monotonous job for 9 hours a day, spend an hour commuting to and from home only to have 4 or 5 hours to myself, if I'm lucky, before I have to wake up and do it all over again? Oh, but the weekends are all mine, aye? So out of a 168-hour week I'm supposed to hate life for 63 of those ours stuck in a box, spend 7-10 hours stuck in a car, spend another 60 hours unconconscious and enjoy the remaining couple of dozen hours living in such a way to justify the abolute misery of the rest of the week? I'm going to spend 30% of my life asleep and 75% of my life working or driving to work and this is supposed to make me happy and excited?

What's the point? 'Oh, well, it's for your kids.' Right. So they can go through it too? And their kids? And their kids? And their tentacled, one-eyed flying-saucer-racing kids? I'm sorry, but I don't really see the payoff. 80% of life spent half-dead and half-awake? That's not fucking fair. Nor is it worth it. And as for family...yah, I need not apply. I hold no more hope of ever having a family. These past 5 years have made it plainly obvious that I am not one to be loved unconditionally. It's to difficult to love me. I'm too broken and convoluted. I respect those who've tried, but I also feel sorry for the effort they put into something that is ultimately futile. I will live the rest of my life companionless and alone. I will die a bachelor with no progeny and no love.

Oh, and don't forget: I'm probably die wearing a leas-I mean necktie. Boss (Douche-smoothy puppy-fucker).

I really don't mind being alone. Being an only child and growing up in the middle of nowhere, I'm use to isolation, both physical and social. I'm even adapting well to being single after 5 years of jumping form one relationship to the other. I'm tired of love. I'm tired of walking that fine line between love and a waste of my time. Every time I think love might be possible between myself and this her or that her, something about my essential self interrupts the possibility. My existence is counter-intuitive to love.

So fuck it. What ever made me think I should be anything but alone? What makes any of us yearn for another wreck alongside our own? I know that I'll just confuse and hurt anybody who tries to invest themselves in me so it's more of a public service than a tragedy that I remain alone and insignificant. Because that's exactly what I am. Alone and insignificant. I am another ant in a field full of anthills. When I am gone, there will be a note in the newspaper obituary and another lump of dirt in another overstuffed graveyard. My only hope is that my father isn't around to see the absolute lack of ripples my eventual death will bring.

It's not so bad, I guess, being alone and insignificant. I can see the stars. But they can't see me.