He sat for a moment and pondered this particular predicament. Caught in a vicious cycle of self-loathing and vanity, he began to question himself entirely. It seemed every thought that passed through his mind was completely contradictory to the thought previous. Was he sad because he was alone, or was solitude a safe haven? Was he faking happiness in a depressing reality, or merely feeling sad for himself despite being quite well off. For when he was with others, he would muster a smile when appropriate. He would conjure up a convincing laugh when a friend told a joke that wasn’t particularly funny. He had to. To fit in. To ward off some greatly unwanted attention. To keep anyone from asking him how close he was to swallowing the fucking entirety of the capsule contents of the cabinet above the toilet in his mother’s house. Or at least he used to. Now he was unsure about what was real and what was solely a ruse. Caught in the awkward grey area between contentment and sorrow, the so-so, the okay but not really, he was unable to moderate the outward projections of his feelings as he didn’t understand what they were or where they were stemming from. This led to massive congestion of the thought process, which led to a lack of creativity and ultimately depression.
Creativity, he then realized, was the key to happiness. He figured that if only he were to create more, if not as much as he consumed, then he would find peace.
He smiled to himself and took another bite of his breakfast toast, pleased with the sudden epiphany. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow he would start creating beautiful things to be appreciated by others and hopefully himself. Tomorrow he would find the inspiration that had long eluded him and break free from the chains of this stagnant cycle. Tomorrow he would be happy.
It was always tomorrow, and always will be.