The Obscure

Ah, another early morning in the life of John.
I woke up at about 5 AM, totally bewildered and surrounded by what the doctor has informed me is my "aura". My "aura" is the thing that preceeds my headache, it hinders my motor skills and does funny things to my vision (I sometimes even hallucinate!). Mainly today it just feels like I took too much fioricet, I can't really stand up without falling down, I can't really see straight, and that little barrier between my conscious stable mind and my subconscious insane one is a little thinner.
Let me quote for you, a few lines from a page I just wrote. I was drawing pictures, each thing is said by a different person in the picture, with no particular rhyme or reason.
"You aren't what you appear to be, boy."
"But, why do I find myself here?"
"And why do I waste my time?"
"Are all of these things just manifestations of a psychotic mind?"
"Or, is there more?"

This is the inscrutable internal conflict that I am apparently going through. I don't know what they mean, but I cannot escape these things. Strange as it may seem, it is this confused rambling that drives me forward in life. Without the ability to release the emotional pressure I feel in this way, I imagine I would explode. Perhaps not physically, but I'd explode nonetheless; and if I go, all of the western civilization is going with me.

I can tell from the all-encompassing, crippling nature of this morning's "aura" that I am going to have one whopper of a headache in about an hour and a half. I don't think I can go into work today, but I missed yesterday on account of a migraine, I don't know how much good grace Hillary has left. Then again, when you are caught in the iron grips of a poison headache (but you feel alright) it is extremely difficult to be productive in something so irritating and trivial as work.
That's really the headache talking. When I am feeling alright, I actually enjoy work. But when I am befuddled by this "aura", this precursor to something that I know will make me yearn for a bullet through the head, I can truthfully say that I hate everything mankind has ever produced. If mankind had never gotten anywhere technologically, we would have died out--or at least not been the dominant species. If that were the case, I wouldn't be here; and the pain in my skull would not be mine to bear.
Selfish. Selfish!
I know that there are many in the world who suffer more than I; but I have always maintained a working theory that every man's pain is his own, from the child who gets his finger pricked, to the old man in the terminal cancer ward who's pain can not even be relieved by morphine. There truly is no real comparitive. I cannot get inside that child's head, how am I to know how much that fingerprick stings him? How am I to say how much that needle galls him?
Nor can I get inside the old man's mind, the cancer eating away at his gut is foriegn to me, as is his pain, as are his memories.

Look into the eyes of a dying man at the end of a great life and you may find joy, happiness and gratitude, knowing full well that he has drunk his fill from the spring of life and can now lie back to rest; look into the eyes of a dying man at the end of a sad and tragic life and you may find sadness, death is a chance to find happiness, lost.
You may find these things, but I, in the height of my neurological confusion, do not think you will.
For the unhappy man, death is a release, an escape from a lifetime of hard-luck and persecution. For the Great Man, death is a thief, stealing away the one thing that, among all other things, he valued most. Misplaced sorrow surrounds us, my loves, and we are nothing but more misled consumers waiting in line to retrieve our fair share of it.

With that poorly constructed analogy, I must leave. Thank you for your time.