I haven’t been writing much lately. Inspiration left me long ago to go fuck someone else into mediocre poetry or some bullshit paragraphs of gibberish no-one reads. In her place, the brain-dead nothingness of a purposeless life has made herself ever-present in my flesh. It crawls under the surface as a leech, sucking the soul straight out of my blood. It eats me up, not because I cannot find a purpose, but because I am convinced that there is none. Life is inherently devoid of meaning and I can’t for the life of me ignore that that fact bothers me.
My job at the university ended a few weeks ago and I am pursuing a random career building a tech start-up with some really amazing people and a product that does not yet exist. I am excited about it, yet confused and lost. It is a dance in the dark, on a wire miles up in the clouds. I am at a loss as to whether my work is helpful for the case at all. But that’s hardly a new feeling. My academic achievements leave me feeling a mixture of unjustified confidence and intoxicating insecurity. While I feel like a sailor lost at sea, I am glad I followed Don Quijote’s advice and jumped the sinking ship of Academia. Truth is I am immensely grateful that I have been offered an opportunity such as this. I was kissed by lady luck and seduced into the void of uncertainty. If the wire carries me for a while, I guess that’s all I could ever expect from anything in life. And when it breaks, I guess I will be forced to yet again make a new life for myself.
This is a fascinating thought that connects to a remarkable thought I had the other day. As awoken by enlightenment, I found myself baffled by the obvious fact that in 15 years I will be 47 years old. 15 years is a long time and to be 47 is still a young age. For the first time in as long as I can remember I was given a sense of how “life goes on”. Whether I strived to live in the moment or not, I somehow never expected life to continue. I always assumed that it would end long before I was ever finished with anything in particular. That judgement day would whip us all out in a second flooding. Instead I find myself living. Living longer than I consciously expected and I am confused as what this means for my future. It’s like a joke: Life: “So what happens now?” Me: “Frankly, I never expected to get this far”. And looking at all this future, I am filled with an immense sense of loss of direction. I find it frustrating that I have no goal, no purpose, no desires to pursue. Desperately I search for something to hold on for a sense of meaning, but even pure hedonistic pleasure gives me little motivation at this point. Perhaps displaying a more vulnerable side of myself I found myself once again unable to hide my feelings and even Mr. Broccoli who sometimes see what he wants to see, noticed the darkness behind my eyes.
To escape myself for a while I’ve planned a visit to Pandabear and Bambi in Barcelona once again. I was suppose to travel to some grand, far away place, maybe visit Radagast, but my mother gave me a hard time about it and subdued by my own anhedonia I could just not be bothered to fight for it. I am drained of too much blood to dare a fight. Instead I devote myself to Netflix escapism, in line with things that are comfortable. My life is an array of the most amazing, mind blowing events and scenarios, of opportunities beyond all expectations. Yet wrapped in all these extraordinary things it does nothing to elevate my excitement. I fear that perhaps I have numbed myself beyond recognition by sending my once high ideals down into the pits of Hell. Perhaps I’ve doomed myself beyond rescue by no longer believing.