The following is series of half-arsed thoughts cobbled together from boredom and pointlessness and because the process of writing, even about nothing, helps me marshal my thoughts.
I’m starting to suspect that without work I do not know what to do with myself. I have nothing that I would call a hobby – certainly nothing I dedicate concentrated time to. With everything I am distracting myself in two, three, four ways – I read and watch tv and get up and peruse the ever dull internet, I make a half-hearted attempt to do, well, anything, before distracting myself, getting up and stalking around, and flopping back down. I’ve written this before, I know I have, I’m not sure where. Such is memory, I suppose, my memory, never anchoring things securely – knowing them but not from where. That might explain why life is so oddly repetitive. It is repetitive, isn’t it? And with such stretches of nothingness in-between.
All this (boring) introspection is not without some product, we know how important the product is. Unfailingly depressing views of what my life is, shall be, always will be. That is as much a product as anything else. The aloneness, I fear, is for always. Not that I mind being alone but I would like someone to annoy occasionally and a sometimes reference that I have not gone completely insane. Some days it’s hard to know.
Now I’m writing in a blog what I once would have written in a letter. Letters are beautifully personal – I miss them as a form of correspondence. Such a shame that all the letter writers have grown up and gotten married. Such a shame that I am locked in a perpetual adolescence. I’m sure, though, that no-one misses my handwriting – the act of deciphering my missives was as interesting as the content, if not more so. Oh, how I miss our childishness, joy in the world, ridiculous mindless cynicism, utter precocity, and the white room with the red text swirling into delightful nightmare. I thought it was delightful, at least.
Where was I ten years ago? Much the same as now – sitting in front of a computer typing aimlessly, though I suspect that I was clad in more than just my underwear, such are the joys of the parental home, but where once I had dreams and ideas I am now somewhat clueless with blankness stretching before me. Interestingly, I have become both more and less of a dreamer than I once was. I now know the place of my dreams and most of them will remain firmly stuck inside my head, they don’t actualise as easily as I once thought.
I am suffering now from the dual terrors of boredom and sexual frustration. I am halfway to convincing myself that both are states of mind and that if I think about it the right way I can put them into little boxes and not have to deal with them again. I look for no disillusion of this idea, it suits me and my desire to delude myself and shape the world into something that I can deal with. Boxes are healthy, ask any obsessive. Goodness that was rather defensive. Oh yes, can you feel the quiet desperation?
Soon I’ll be packing my computer away, not literally - though that wouldn’t be a bad idea, maybe I should try a trial separation from the internet, only see it at weekends and then only on business matters – just a closing down and switching off as I have an appointment with beer. I suspect that my liver will ache tonight; it seems to have something to do with my level of interest in the drinking process. Is that not an expression of boredom?