Galileo.
I kid. I kid.
It's a lifetime ago that I sat here to pour my heart out into the uncaring, all-understanding internet. Funny how it wasn't so long ago.
And that's just what I'm here to talk about. I think. The swift changes. How each change is a lifetime and lifetimes are short. Is it always like this or are the early twenties more terrifying than pop culture promised? Or perhaps pop culture is too confused to contain it with any clarity. Is that why people look for answers on Tumblr? Is that why people look for answers?
I now realize where I went wrong. It was around that "Is that why people" bit.
"There are many ways to lose the oldest game. Failure of nerve, hesitation, being unable to shift into a defensive mode, lack of imagination..." - Sandman, A Hope In Hell
But I'm not here to be serious. That applies to both this blog and this material realm.
I write for a living now. I spend my day crafting sentences that craft realities that tend to people's needs, insecurities and delusions. I come home feeling like I haven't written in ages, and I don't have time to write, most of the time. When I do have time, I don't have RAM. I jingle away to bed, where I sift through the cache and debug. I sleep without realizing it.
I fall asleep on public transport now. I'm still not used to it, growing up with frightful insomnia, sleep comes terrifyingly easy now. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I don't have to time to figure out how I feel about it.
As I write this, I have an alarm set for 6:30. It is after all the weekend, and my weekends are a race.
Time is silly. So are corporations and contracts. They like you too much so they lock you up and give you free coffee. We sign our lives away to lovelorn stalkers, and they call it modern day labor law. Gone are the days when the only way I knew my writing was good was when they ran off with it. Now I get appreciation, and it is too sweet. I don't understand it. It makes me sick.
There was an explosion this morning in one of the most populated areas in the city. I called my boyfriend to see if he's alive while I made coffee. I logged on to my home-feed to find people rambling about currency. Joking about currency. Quipping about their inability to afford mid-range coffee. I live at a time where all my friends and my friends' parents are dealing in currency. "I managed to get me 200 USD on Tuesday," they socialize. I am struggling to register reality. I drink as much coffee as I can, but on most days, I go for a cup of tea instead. I no longer see the point.
Grandma had lunch with us last week. I cried when I saw her in normal clothes on our couch. Then I grabbed my resolve, stuffed it back into my pants and went back out to talk about mini-sandwiches.
Sunday after work, I went for a walk. I had to pass by the bank to dump my paycheck until they get around to making me a bank account. It had been a while since I walked, time melted and so did my consciousness. I teleported from corner to the next, in a daze. In my head, I was shopping for apartments, down quiet side-streets that were less glamorous and more human than their bamboozled brothers up front. Less than a year ago, I would have been looking up with a smile on my face. That Sunday, however, I was looking up with anxiety. Will the landlord be psychotic? Will the neighbours be crazy? What will I do to my first burglar? How will I get the contractors to listen to me? This street is too dark, is it safe? How will I react to the first time I have a power outage? I am still scared of the dark.
I walked faster. The ATM was busted. Three people talked to me. I didn't welcome it.
I got lost. I sat on the sidewalk, looked around me for any impending danger and checked my phone. I ordered an uber and slipped away into my daze. I didn't snap out of it until Monday night. I had training. It was also Halloween.
Happy dippy day, I crafted sentences that craft realities that tend to people's needs, insecurities and delusions. I now realize my job doubles as reality. Everyone I know is a writer, some are just shittier at it than others. It exhausts me. I wish people would stop sometimes, but they never do. How would they stop if they didn't know they ever started?
How they don't is one of the things that confuse me. If it takes you an average of 20 minutes to see through their facade, how does it take them years? They all need to fire their agents, take a holiday about as long as the eventual breakdown takes, then come back to work in their human skin, bed sores and all.
A couple of days ago, I realized something was wrong. It was also when I realized that survival is all about accepting that life is pointless. I came to that conclusion with the help of a loved one, who was suffering from a lapse of reality that I'd helped with some months earlier. To my surprise, he'd told me what I'd told him, and it helped. In all the rush, I'd forgotten what I'd said, I'd forgotten the sense it made, and got lost trying to find the sense I didn't remember I lost. What a rush.
Life IS pointless. It's wonderfully pointless, so you might as well have fun.
Public transport is still interesting. I have not changed. I still enjoy the stories, I still leave the headphones at home, but now I feel claustrophobic. I hope that next time I won't, and remember that life is a playground. We forget that realities aren't real every now and then, then we remember. The problem isn't in remembering, it's in forgetting.
I am not unhappy. I am not happy. I am not either. The only description to the state I'm in right now is imperfectly described in the first half of the sentence; the only thing I am right now is 'not'. I am not. I'll figure out the rest of the sentence later, and by accepting, the imperfect sentence will no longer bother me.
I have to go now, my time is up. I'm in the middle of a wonderful weekend, and I have to restart enjoying it now. There isn't much time.
I kid. I kid.
It's a lifetime ago that I sat here to pour my heart out into the uncaring, all-understanding internet. Funny how it wasn't so long ago.
And that's just what I'm here to talk about. I think. The swift changes. How each change is a lifetime and lifetimes are short. Is it always like this or are the early twenties more terrifying than pop culture promised? Or perhaps pop culture is too confused to contain it with any clarity. Is that why people look for answers on Tumblr? Is that why people look for answers?
I now realize where I went wrong. It was around that "Is that why people" bit.
"There are many ways to lose the oldest game. Failure of nerve, hesitation, being unable to shift into a defensive mode, lack of imagination..." - Sandman, A Hope In Hell
But I'm not here to be serious. That applies to both this blog and this material realm.
I write for a living now. I spend my day crafting sentences that craft realities that tend to people's needs, insecurities and delusions. I come home feeling like I haven't written in ages, and I don't have time to write, most of the time. When I do have time, I don't have RAM. I jingle away to bed, where I sift through the cache and debug. I sleep without realizing it.
I fall asleep on public transport now. I'm still not used to it, growing up with frightful insomnia, sleep comes terrifyingly easy now. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I don't have to time to figure out how I feel about it.
As I write this, I have an alarm set for 6:30. It is after all the weekend, and my weekends are a race.
Time is silly. So are corporations and contracts. They like you too much so they lock you up and give you free coffee. We sign our lives away to lovelorn stalkers, and they call it modern day labor law. Gone are the days when the only way I knew my writing was good was when they ran off with it. Now I get appreciation, and it is too sweet. I don't understand it. It makes me sick.
There was an explosion this morning in one of the most populated areas in the city. I called my boyfriend to see if he's alive while I made coffee. I logged on to my home-feed to find people rambling about currency. Joking about currency. Quipping about their inability to afford mid-range coffee. I live at a time where all my friends and my friends' parents are dealing in currency. "I managed to get me 200 USD on Tuesday," they socialize. I am struggling to register reality. I drink as much coffee as I can, but on most days, I go for a cup of tea instead. I no longer see the point.
Grandma had lunch with us last week. I cried when I saw her in normal clothes on our couch. Then I grabbed my resolve, stuffed it back into my pants and went back out to talk about mini-sandwiches.
Sunday after work, I went for a walk. I had to pass by the bank to dump my paycheck until they get around to making me a bank account. It had been a while since I walked, time melted and so did my consciousness. I teleported from corner to the next, in a daze. In my head, I was shopping for apartments, down quiet side-streets that were less glamorous and more human than their bamboozled brothers up front. Less than a year ago, I would have been looking up with a smile on my face. That Sunday, however, I was looking up with anxiety. Will the landlord be psychotic? Will the neighbours be crazy? What will I do to my first burglar? How will I get the contractors to listen to me? This street is too dark, is it safe? How will I react to the first time I have a power outage? I am still scared of the dark.
I walked faster. The ATM was busted. Three people talked to me. I didn't welcome it.
I got lost. I sat on the sidewalk, looked around me for any impending danger and checked my phone. I ordered an uber and slipped away into my daze. I didn't snap out of it until Monday night. I had training. It was also Halloween.
Happy dippy day, I crafted sentences that craft realities that tend to people's needs, insecurities and delusions. I now realize my job doubles as reality. Everyone I know is a writer, some are just shittier at it than others. It exhausts me. I wish people would stop sometimes, but they never do. How would they stop if they didn't know they ever started?
How they don't is one of the things that confuse me. If it takes you an average of 20 minutes to see through their facade, how does it take them years? They all need to fire their agents, take a holiday about as long as the eventual breakdown takes, then come back to work in their human skin, bed sores and all.
A couple of days ago, I realized something was wrong. It was also when I realized that survival is all about accepting that life is pointless. I came to that conclusion with the help of a loved one, who was suffering from a lapse of reality that I'd helped with some months earlier. To my surprise, he'd told me what I'd told him, and it helped. In all the rush, I'd forgotten what I'd said, I'd forgotten the sense it made, and got lost trying to find the sense I didn't remember I lost. What a rush.
Life IS pointless. It's wonderfully pointless, so you might as well have fun.
Public transport is still interesting. I have not changed. I still enjoy the stories, I still leave the headphones at home, but now I feel claustrophobic. I hope that next time I won't, and remember that life is a playground. We forget that realities aren't real every now and then, then we remember. The problem isn't in remembering, it's in forgetting.
I am not unhappy. I am not happy. I am not either. The only description to the state I'm in right now is imperfectly described in the first half of the sentence; the only thing I am right now is 'not'. I am not. I'll figure out the rest of the sentence later, and by accepting, the imperfect sentence will no longer bother me.
I have to go now, my time is up. I'm in the middle of a wonderful weekend, and I have to restart enjoying it now. There isn't much time.
