The bane of the theoretical
It's 4 am, and I'm staring at the bright rectangle of artificial light on the wall. Thousands of tiny points are exploding in my brain. I'm contemplating the wasted energy and heat it takes for my brain to fall into the abyss of self-doubt. Why did I fail my job interview? Will my headache go away if I take an aspirin? Why does the gift of happiness come packaged in stress?
I'm a victim of my own consciousness. I recently took a personality test that categorized me as a logician. A master procrastinator misunderstood by common people. Apparently, I have a knack for overthinking and analysis. This diagnosis is not surprising as it summarizes my life for the past few years. I've become increasingly reliant on my mental need for efficiency and optimization to the detriment of doing things properly (aka like most other people). I have given up on goals that I've deduced are a result of insecurities and peer pressure. I've crafted a solid logical foundation for an existential crisis to take over me.
This state is not the infamous comfort zone that I wouldn't want to leave: my white blanket and soft mattress. It's a state of familiar discomfort. At first, I tied it to circumstances outside of my control: the mental pressure of living with family and the unpleasantness of having no AC. But in the revealing stillness of 4 am thoughts, I'm becoming aware of the perpetuity of my despair.