In the absence of a routine, after enjoying first, then wallowing, then despairing and eventually resigning myself to the lack of a centre in life, my brain comes up with a prisoner's routine. It's to stay sane. I exercise using as little space as I can use, read, eat and watch things on my bed. I have the whole world open to me, and yet I behave like I live in a 2 x 2 cell.
In the promise that I will be "let out" soon, I perform my day like a religion. I write, I watch, I read. Actually, I'm only trying to watch and write and read. One video leads to another, which leads me to read up about something which will land me on a blog that references a book in a particular genre that suddenly seems like the Only Thing That Is Interesting On Earth and I jettison all other intentions to read an article online, write a long-thought blogpost, watch a favourite TV show episode for it. I observe now, in the afternoon shade of all things -- not in its morning light -- that I am deferring everything. Derrida said there is no meaning, every word leads us to another word and meaning never really comes. I keep deferring things, desperately latching onto whatever takes my fancy. I suppose I finally realise that my mind thinks this isn't it. This can't be life. This is only a simulation of life, inside a small cage.
I wonder why I feel that. But I think I know. In either case, I'm also sick of sitting and wallowing. So I'm being pushy and forceful with myself. We create our situations, and it's a vicious spiral to get into - this doing n.o.t.h.i.n.g and then feeling like life is nothing and there is nothing to be done.
I've ordered 6 books today. I intend to read them all. I intend so many things. All this potential energy just keeps buzzing, first encouragingly, and then threateningly. Life na, is basically running along the treadmill. You gotta keep hustling. You can't slow down your pace without a thousand people around you tsk-ing in exasperation, you gotta move, chop chop, move it mister!
And I'm in The city of hustlers. I should know.
In the promise that I will be "let out" soon, I perform my day like a religion. I write, I watch, I read. Actually, I'm only trying to watch and write and read. One video leads to another, which leads me to read up about something which will land me on a blog that references a book in a particular genre that suddenly seems like the Only Thing That Is Interesting On Earth and I jettison all other intentions to read an article online, write a long-thought blogpost, watch a favourite TV show episode for it. I observe now, in the afternoon shade of all things -- not in its morning light -- that I am deferring everything. Derrida said there is no meaning, every word leads us to another word and meaning never really comes. I keep deferring things, desperately latching onto whatever takes my fancy. I suppose I finally realise that my mind thinks this isn't it. This can't be life. This is only a simulation of life, inside a small cage.
I wonder why I feel that. But I think I know. In either case, I'm also sick of sitting and wallowing. So I'm being pushy and forceful with myself. We create our situations, and it's a vicious spiral to get into - this doing n.o.t.h.i.n.g and then feeling like life is nothing and there is nothing to be done.
I've ordered 6 books today. I intend to read them all. I intend so many things. All this potential energy just keeps buzzing, first encouragingly, and then threateningly. Life na, is basically running along the treadmill. You gotta keep hustling. You can't slow down your pace without a thousand people around you tsk-ing in exasperation, you gotta move, chop chop, move it mister!
And I'm in The city of hustlers. I should know.
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