Friday, 7 October 2011


Tonight I made myself a proper dinner for the first time in probably about three weeks. Fried rice with vegetables and little hamburger pieces that took time to make and was surprisingly good. As I was eating on my own, immediately after taking my last forkful I got up to clear the dishes, but then I stopped myself, sat myself back down, and allowed myself to calmly feel the satisfaction with what had just happened, for the first time in about as long. It was one of those "moments" usually reserved with me for reactions to popular or "high" culture, allowing me to see how I'm being a real dickhead towards myself.

Somehow, still, every single time anything turns out well, it is always a surprise. It's nice to be pleasantly surprised, but because these instances so skillfully manage to evade predictability, they don't get very many opportunities to present themselves. Few things (and people) in my life enjoy focused, unequivocal attention and effort, and instead I find myself in a kind of aimless, permanent hurry to get through the things I think people think I'm supposed to do, without letting it become too much of a strain. And then all of a sudden it's 1:00 am and I haven't taken anything seriously in another day I'll never get back.

Everything and everybody become blood-sucking leeches to whom I'll give free access to my body but never my soul, and somewhere along the line I'll lose sight of the fact that my dinner is not fucking out to get me. It's dead.

It is difficult for me to express the degree to which I despise the arbitrary system of expectations and demands I feel myself subjected to. I hate it with an energy that could fuel a small village for a few months. It has nowhere to go. It confuses me. Mostly, it confuses me how any of this is acceptable or even legal. People will make demands or accusations the only appropriate response to which is to ram your hand down their throat  and rip their heart out of their ribcage, and usually you don't, and everything is supposed to go on as normal. Today, on the national "atonement" day, the countless people who would be shocked at my publicising my orgasmically delicious dinner, wouldn't give a second's thought to how their casual praise and condemnation vaporise people. And unfortunately, it's not because they're bad. It's because they're idiots.

When people hurt you without being malicious, how are you supposed to deal with them and the world that contains them? How do you participate, without prostituting yourself? What does it even mean to participate, besides playing your assigned role?

If I could crack the code to what makes experiences satisfying, rather than shit, I'd stop being so surprised all the time and be able to regularly communicate with the world without feeling constantly violated. Dinner is outside the danger zone. And trying to get through things I hate quickly doesn't solve anything. It's probably a good idea to attempt specific things more often.