Into the Sea · nothing makes sense
Your heart is warm, your mind is free and there’s an inkling of happiness twitching within.
An influx of activity washes over you.
This might actually turn out alright, you know.
The world and I are not getting along. I mean, we’re working things out but it’s taking a damn long time, or so it seems. Am I writing just to… oh, I don’t know — why am I writing? Thoughts never translate well to paper in my experience. However constructive they appear, as neurons fire, there’s a barrier present. I know what it is now, though. It’s expectation. That whatever I write has to be something special. But none of it is.
“No worthwhile thought shall pass through these hands!”
I’ve written this before. I repeat myself a lot. It might be because I’ve successfully gotten this shit out of my brain and onto a hard drive before. It’s something I know how to do. These new and exciting thoughts that make me a better person, a more focused person are entirely new to me. If I have trouble doing them, how am I supposed to be able to write about them?
New and exciting to me, entirely old and uninteresting to you. You’ve been doing it for a long time. I’m just getting started. Every little task is an Everest of thought.
The world outside my tiny apartment scares me. Venturing out in public is an ordeal I’d rather not have to deal with. Whenever I do I feel judged and surveilled. I feel like I’m trespassing. I tense up, look mean, stare straight ahead. I walk with a purpose — to do what I have to and get away as quickly as possible. All the while afraid someone will notice me. It’s an ever present feeling of dread; I’m expecting to be called out. Singled out. At any moment.
It’s been like that since I was a kid. My first memory of social anxiety goes back to 1990. At certain points in my life it’s been easier, at other points worse. It’s pretty bad now.
Sometimes you gotta go with what’s inside your head. You want to be poignant, important; you want to let graceful and exquisite words sprout from your fingers, like slow motion rose petals in a movie. But it always ends the same; you come to the conclusion that all you write is pretentious gobbledygook.
Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
Don’t let that stop you. That’s the voice you have chosen, that’s who you are. Don’t be content with simple words if what you want to say requires something else. Sure, it can be distilled. It can always be made simpler. But don’t simplify solely for the sake of it. There has to be a reason, a gut feeling that overrides whatever part of your brain making those decisions.
Don’t concern yourself with what comes out or how — just write. Sooner or later you’ll stumble upon a grain of truth swathed inside that perfect sentence you’ve been looking for.
Even an idiot will make sense once in a while.
I’ve forgotten to take my pills these last two days. I understand now to what degree they suppress my moods and thoughts — both the good and the bad. Mostly the bad.
I am filled with anger and resentment and a strong feeling of having been surrendered by my friends. Maybe it was too much to ask of them in the first place. Maybe André was right; we’re not friends, just acquaintances. Like ships passing in the night we’re all headed for our own destinations — sometimes our headings intersect but in the end we all sail our own sea.
Oslo is a concrete wasteland filled with watering holes poisoned with alcohol and relationships that will never be more than a passing fancy. Is there anything left for me there? A job and some friends. A job I find dull and droll. Friends I never talk to.
I only ever saw them when it was time for drinking. They repeat the same jokes, the same quotes, the same stories. Regurgitating life in an attempt to seem substantial, but they are empty shells denying the humdrum of their urban sprawl.
It’s always the same chewing of fat going on. Filling the silence with every minutiae they can think of to avoid sitting there in the gloomy light of a run-down club and for a split second realize the inanity of their interaction and how little they feel comfortable with just existing in one place, together.
Why? Is it all an attempt at escaping real life? The realization that our lives boil down to one part work, one part sleep and an unhealthy dose of getting our minds constantly fucked by ourselves and everyone we come in contact with.
So that’s why we’re here. To eat, sleep, drink, fuck and work for the rest of our lives? This fucking incessant need to always be on the move, always have a purpose — no matter how insignificant or small we are in the big picture.
Life isn’t a Great Adventure. It’s a series of random events based on an infinite number of random actions taken by over six billion random humans hurtling through space. Sometimes these actions converge en masse and before you know it there’s a war going on.