Another Bout of Melancholy

Why is it that everything I once took any kind of joy in has suddenly wilted like a maple leaf fallen into a muddy puddle?

I know I'm pathetic and yet in my realization of this I see how truly and deplorably pathetic everything and everyone else actually is. We're all stuck in a giant eddy. We're swilling our filth and murky attempts at clarity around one another in some sort of go nowhere carousel of self-delusion and feigned completeness.

As creature of habit we all look for the cause and effect of things.
We want to know why.
And it's only in the last several hundred years that we've been provided with the one fatal element that undoes our natural sense of curiosity: convenience.

Everything we engage in must be constantly examined and reexamined in order to come up with some method or some device useful in making said engagement easier, more convenient. And in this pursuit we eschew out typical ingenuity and readily available imagination in trade for effortlessness.
When once our work was what documented our embracing life, our art being the legacy of our being, we are now faced with an age of abbreviated conversation sent in textual chunks; a society predicating efficiency over quality; a general attitude of spite toward the notion of patience and its inherent value in building an appreciation for life and its cycle.

And I am through with it.
I realize the hypocrisy intrinsic to such a claim made from the standpoint of an individual just as saturated with the need for ease as all of the surroundings he finds so needful of critique. And there lies my weighty and inward combustion. My systems of engagement are breaking down and my will to continue along with them.
I am finding myself without any reserves where hope and optimism are concerned.
And this is a difficult place to be in the same sense as any addict finds her or himself experiencing the keenest of loneliness when they finally are departed from their vice. I am unfamiliar with a life with convenience and yet I am so desperate to find out what that means, how that tastes, the way in which I will rest when finally without it.

This would seem appropriate basis for my recently inflating desire to vacate my present life; to leave the makeshift home I've concocted from so many clashing parts; to run far, far away from the network in which I find myself snared like a spider's prey. Only this spider is one of selfishness, of pride, of conquest and recognition, fame and celebration. But only of me. And nothing of the beautiful and majestic World in which we all forget we live.

Because the World is not convenient by nature. The World is determined and productive. At its own, ethereal pace. And who are we, puny humans, to try and impress upon the preexisting world some semblance of control?
Even if you blithely follow some Messianic faux-historic poetry about 7 days of creation, humanity still came last. And yet somehow we've all come to blindly forget this.

We're not the top of the totem. In fact the notion of hierarchy is just the thing killing us all. And by our own hands. What is this need for superiority? What does it actually accomplish? Survival? Social betterment? Equality?

By no means.

All the quest for superiority accomplishes is so much discord, conflict, and devaluing. The wake of destruction left by a militant effort toward establishing oneself or one's group as better or even best has always been and always shall be of no benefit to any but the sole interest of the would-be victors.
And as the victors soak in the glory of their dominance, the World around them retreats into decay and the kingdom the victors once so arrogantly reveled in will slowly and quietly wilt into a wasteland where no ones proliferation will seem worthwhile.

And this is where I have found myself.