Dear World,
I have nothing interesting to report today. I accomplished almost nothing of any significance to anyone. That in itself may seem like cause for a lot of distress. However, I am on enough anti-depressants that it doesn’t really matter to me. Life is good, life is wonderful. Why is it good or wonderful? I don’t know. It just is. All hell could break loose and life would still be good and wonderful. This is an odd complaint, isn’t it?
In some strange way I want to feel good and wonderful for good and wonderful reasons. But I feel good and wonderful for no reasons at all. It’s a strange kind of happiness. It’s a happiness that most ancient Stoic philosophers probably strived for with the greatest mental effort. And here it took me absolutely no effort at all, at least no more effort than to open a pill bottle, drop a pill in my palm, fill a glass with water and swallow.
Great philosophers of practical wisdom have tried for many centuries to tell us how to train our minds to be content in a world full of sorrow and disappointments. Well, here is my method. Go to a doctor. Tell the doctor that you are depressed and beg for the doctor to prescribe you a pill to cure it. Voila! Problem solved. We can now dispense with the greatest works of wisdom and other “natural” and or “holistic” cures.
To any readers out there who may find it strange that one needs a “prescription” to attain such a panacea but no “prescription” at all to acquire alcohol, tobacco and other destructive substances, well, I don’t know the answer to that one either. It’s sheer barbarism!
garychildress 