It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.

“I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!”

— Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

I have come past yet another self-discovery, though the revelation itself is perhaps not so strange since it has hid in the subtext of many other discoveries I have come across on my path.

Like Alice… in Wonderland.

It hit me one evening when I asked myself – for the umpteenth time – why I seem to have no life. Really. And I realized it may be because I never had a life to begin with. It has not so much to do with self-pity as it is simply an objective observation:

I have always prided myself with having an independent and original mind (obvious throughout this blog, I think), but, in reality, my independence has lived off my dependence on others, and my original personality/mind has lived off all the influences around me. (Nothing new under the sun and rather cliché. And, after all, I can never be totally without some level of uniqueness. None of us can.)

But I believe I, so far, have lived a life of a sort of parasitical child – in badly need to grow up! A child who cannot, for the life of me, express emotions maturely – hardly even objectively (I cannot seem to overcome my literal tongue-tiedness)!

In part delusional innocence and part daily-reality-phobia, I’ve fed off the experiences, feelings and stories of others – whether those people have been real-life or fictional. Thus the constant and spineless immersion in fictional narratives and music – to substitute the numb emotions within – and warding off responsibilities in real-life (mostly those to myself).

*sighs* If I indeed suffer from some sort of Peter Pan-syndrome, I’d really like to have it diagnosed for being just that. Then I have a real excuse to shed my responsibilities and go find Neverland. (Hmm. Step up from Wonderland?)… Joke aside.

I am most likely just a maladaptive dreamer.

Have I ever felt empty and aimless when the pages run out or these ‘other people’ stop talking and showing me their lives and I can no longer immerse myself in their liveliness? Yes, perhaps I have. Perhaps I repress it by immersing myself further into something else, such as my imagination (Lewis Carroll wrote it: “Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality”). Which again continues to supplant reality or what I cannot seem to have in my own daily reality. Something I am too cowardly to reach out and grasp fully myself.

Arrogantly, I have convinced myself that life is bigger than anything as ‘trivial’ as the daily, material matters of my own here and now. Bigger in a sense of metaphysics. I have a vast universe in my head that I need to discover and fill out with knowledge. Dealing with my own reality heads-on always seems so exhausting, transient and unreliable. I have no control there. I cannot predict the outcome in situations where my emotions feel most at stake but where they are often abandoned, even by myself, because I am no closer to understand them. So, of course, a subtle disappointment has run throughout every action, though I have not failed to see the benefit from most of them. Failures and flaws give life a color beyond compare, because they are what constitute you as a human; your unique you. I have learned from every action and that I have taken as a blessing, you could say.

But still the disappointment, the emptiness has rung hollow within; an undercurrent settling in my gut as I have become more and more aware of life; of all the things I have lived through compared to all the things I likely or may never will. The sense of excitement and curiosity of getting to know what lies ahead has slowly been quelled by every underlying disappointment connecting; a frightening numbness setting in. Tastes turned to ashes in my mouth.

And I immerse myself in all the constructed narratives and emotions to bar out, to hush the raging numbness, silence and solitude-turned-loneliness I live in and come home to every day.

Solitude. My once so trusted friend has been possessed by loneliness; become the Babadook of my mind; a ghost haunting for the purpose of terror rather than company. And I have been its very maker. It is the Frankenstein of my creation; a ‘safe’ theory of ‘companionship’ that my mind latched on to, settled for – anything compared to the real thing; of having no companionship at all. A theory that turned into a being of its own once the egg was hatched; a being that became a monstrosity because it was still unsatisfied with its existence and blamed me. Because life isn’t easy. It was never meant to be.

Maybe it is the strange, little but significant events that have occurred to me within the last couple of years (I may have mentioned some of them here and there, but I don’t imagine you’ll know what I’m talking about and I cannot go into them right now) and likely set off my depression. If indeed my depression has been lying in wait for this – or if it really is a depression and not just an odd restlessness or lazy down-spiraling of one defense mechanism succeeding another. And, as I said, burying myself in fiction and imaginative feelings helps me to deflect from my own lonely life as well as this perhaps/perhaps-not-depression. A sort of silly ‘coping escapism’ you are more likely to find in some (dark) children’s novel. And despite what I may have learned from these significant events, they have also left tiny, superficial scars in my heart; invisible to the naked eye; slowly accumulating over the years, forming a dark little cloud around it where the sun peeps in every now and then, desperate to emerge fully. I can empathize with others who go through something similar on a daily basis, yet I cannot begin to compare myself to what others feel on totally different levels and maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe I’m allowed to have this, to feel this, accept it and then find a way out of the fog, somehow.

(Have I become my own therapist?)

All utter nonsense, perhaps. Or, perhaps not? How can anyone answer that but myself? And how can I when it feels like it takes several epiphanies, some life-changing experiences and a lifetime to answer that?

Again, I’m at a loss. At war in my mind. I seek immediate answers I can only gain through time. And time moves both slowly and unpredictably. And then it’s over before you know it.

And again, I haven’t dared to move and grab hold of some part of my reality and truly make it mine; claim it as mine. I have been too cowardly to do it. Perhaps because I feel, deep down, that there’s something too good about life that I do not deserve? I feel blessed and cursed at the same time, and I’m ashamed of feeling cursed; of appearing ungrateful of what I’ve been given; my inability to make better use of what I have and seize the day. I mostly just seize the day to write about life and consume others’ experiences of it, not experiencing it myself nearly as fully as I could. Imprisoned by myself or my inability to do something about it. Is that a life of a writer? I doubt it. And yet, many people imprisoned; physically, institutionally or mentally, have written all throughout history, have they not? Some of the greatest writer have been imprisoned in some way or another, perhaps not directly enabling their writing but channeling it.

Perhaps I can make do with what I have worked myself into?

My writing may be as delusional as it may be cathartic; a circle of self-serving excuses; where fear of pity and perfection mixes in a blend as sinister as the river Styx I have to pay Charon with everything precious I possess to cross.

I return time and time again to a crossroad and I wonder if there is a me in this world and another me in another world and I wonder how often they will coincide in this harsh, bright, beautiful existence I have been given. Or if one will truly emerge with the other and – in that case – which one? And I wonder how many feels the same?

I want to override the consistent self-pity and shame, knowing how silly and unproductive these feelings are, but first I must escape the gripping loneliness from within and around and it is not so easily overcome. My stubborn independence does not help. I still return to myself. I have scolded myself with every line possible and every tone of voice to see the effects, to self-motivate, and yet, it has not helped (unsurprisingly). I have written and drawn and opened up more to those around me, strangers even. Yet, I still come home to myself and myself alone; the loneliness waiting there.

How is something like that overcome? I cannot seem to allow myself to reach for twosomeness, perhaps because I am so conflicted by its very concept. Equally afraid and hopeful. My mind is always one step ahead; one foot in the positive scenario, another in the negative one. All I see is the 50/50 chances and I cannot predict my luck nor my misfortune. ‘That’s human’, ‘that’s life’; god don’t I know ‘it’s bloody life!’ and yet, it does nothing to answer what I am to do. To wait and let it run its course? Sure, I’ve done nothing else. But as Charlotte Brontë once stated: “The trouble is not that I am single and likely to stay single, but that I am lonely and likely to stay lonely.”

But what is life if not lonely and wild, fantastical and quiet?

Meanwhile, I’ll return to a segment of Carroll’s iconic story that speaks to something quintessential in me:

“She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. ‘But it’s no use now,’ thought poor Alice, ‘to pretend to be two people! Why, there’s hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!'”

*revised 23/6/17*

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What you’ll probably find me saying/thinking every so often

  • “That’s debatable”
  • “That seems symptomatic to …”
  • “I blame evolution for being subject to such basic impulses”
  • “Why should that be expected as being normal?!”
  • “Have you tried thinking about it this way …?”
  • “Sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about”
  • “What’s with the constant judging, people?”
  • “I had no idea this was the day that people did this thing… Why?”
  • “I do nothing. Or, no, I do something. I think.”
  • “Okay. So everybody just presumes one should know about this. When they tell you nothing, how is one supposed to know..?!”
  • “How on earth did this thing get so many supporters/members/fans? I want to know”
  • “How on earth did anyone come to think this was a good idea? I want to know”
  • “Have you noticed that …?”
  • “Why does my body keep doing that? It’s so strange. But then again, so is my brain.”
  • “These [insert number] things are so similar. I wonder if they have any connection? I bet they do. I must find out or make the connections myself”
  • “I don’t get how you can live without having/understanding irony… HOW??”
  • “Why am I the only one laughing at this?”
  • “I bet it is more complex than that”
  • “Yeah, but what if …”
  • “How can your mind be so small?”
  • “Oh, I wish …”
  • “That’s relative”
  • “I don’t understand why I cannot use this word/proverb like that. Language isn’t a static thing. It never has been. Besides, how can you claim to have monopoly of the use of a word/proverb when you hardly know its original meaning, how it came about in the first place or why we still use it in totally different contexts? Jeez.”
  • “Yeah, like that one/every time in history when …”
  • “Learning curves, peeps!”
  • “I feel like figuratively strangling that person/those people who do this thing. No, literally.”
  • “Now, I don’t want you to take this personally, but you do realize that …”
  • And the list goes on:

*revised 15/5/17*

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Lack of emotional guidance

“I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.” — Oscar Wilde

Maybe my reason for not wanting to have children is because I already have a small 6-year-old running around inside my heart, playing my emotional keeper. It’s quite enough. *scoffs dryly* No, seriously. It’s literally like an annoying, selfish, hedonistic, stubborn little kid who runs amok, high on sugar and excitement over utterly geeky nonsense, or slumps together in a corner out of exhaustion or demonstratively trying to get its will.

Yep. That’s the core feature of my emotional response.

And like any weary parent my rationality tries to rein it in and put some guidelines up in order to get somewhere constructive. Not that I constantly fail in this fairly common endeavour, but my ’emotional keeper’ is also just a child; a person with its own personality and individual growth. I cannot keep on controlling it, yet as a ‘parent’, my rationality has a constant responsibility towards it. They cannot easily be separated and it has consequences if so.

It demands constant work to deal with emotions. At least for me – as an INTP. I can’t really speak on behalf of other types. I want and value my emotions but I have no natural emotional guidance and use my rationality, my intellect and wit to handle and deflect it when I think my emotional response gets out of hand. Though, I’ll never understand them. Sure, I can analyze and recognize patterns that led to the response, but I’ll never truly be on wavelength with my emotions. They are just … there. Doing something. And sometimes they are not. Don’t ask me why.

Now; sucking at your own emotional guidance, guiding others in the same department is, well, not excellent. I have had all these thoughts and feelings of wanting to help, but no idea how to reach out without seeming pathetic, contrived and awkward in my approach and sympathy that I do not always feel myself and hate to put on. I’m not even sure when I truly sympathize or empathize with somebody. I have no natural inclination towards interpersonal guidance besides the logical one. And I have absolute zero training from the home front. Other than generally knowing what not to do. Yet, knowing isn’t the same as showing and when it comes to showing I feel I have severely lacked the supportive action.

Maybe I haven’t. Maybe this worried post is all for naught, but that simply illustrates how little I get my own, personal emotional rollercoaster in my inner backyard.

I have long denied – and partly continue to do so – that I need emotional guidance, both from myself and from others. I’ve considered it a pathetic, selfish and needy request to want. Which may or may not have something to do with my upbringing … But by denying and dismissing it, I have actually placed myself in a more selfish position. Did I have the ability to let myself be guided by and through my emotions in a symbiotic fashion and help others to do the same, I would certainly be a less selfish person for it, I believe! Instead of barracading myself from the fear of stepping out awkwardly or in order not to hurt and get hurt, unintentionally.

I recognize now that I need to learn emotional guidance and give it to myself and others and that wanting it in return is not so big an ask. It would certainly be beneficial to all parties.

But where to start? By stop denying it to myself? By reaching out or by being reached? Maybe I’m not desperate enough? Maybe it isn’t shown enough through my awkward actions and words alone since it is something most people, presumably, take for granted, don’t recognize or misinterpret?

One must be careful not to be consumed by an evil spiral of guilt anyhow: To think about wanting to reach out and then cop out, feeling too awkward about it and then feeling guilty about not doing it, wondering why you’re so bad at it and then rationalizing it with ‘there’s nothing you could do to help anyway’ or ‘you’ll just muck it up’. When you keep on thinking about doing and thinking about not doing and never really lift your head to look up and into the eyes of the person in need; to truly listen and help and be there, without being distracted by your own guilt and inabilities.

I think that has been part of the problem with my parents when I feel I haven’t really received emotional guidance from them or that they haven’t given it to themselves. And I think I am afraid of this most of all, because I know I do it myself and I’m not sure how to get out. I continue to feel insufficient in this department and awkward when I do do something and still not sure if I do anything right. I have gotten positive response for my rational, logical guidance – even in somewhat emotional situations – but what if that isn’t enough? I really have no clue whether people around me need more emotional support from me or when or how…!? Do they simply think I’m not able to handle it and instead seek out other people? I partly fear and hope so. Because then they understand how difficult it is for me to give helpful, emotional support, but it also means this two-way, tender subject is never really broached and I begin to fear they think me unfeeling and carefree, with no worries of my own in possible need of guidance..?

And I end right by the conclusion that, all in all, I am pathetic for thinking all this … *sighs* Yeah, you see? Really helpful, emotional guidance here.

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Never try to conform. Rebel. Be critical. Think. (With the help of some insightful people)

As eilamona on Tumblr pointed out – and on a personal note – INTPs should never try to fit in: “The world is built for extraverted judgers (and sensors also have an easier time since there are lots of them) – but it’s a huge mistake to try to fit in. All these years, we have developed our unique qualities as an INTP. It’s your choice whether to hide them like weaknesses, or play them up as strengths.”

If you force yourself into conformity the consequence will be as Virginia Woolf so accurately put it: “Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.”

Of course, one can simply ‘play into’ conformity but not fully ‘commit’ like author Richard Wright implies: “The thing to do was to act just like others acted, live like they lived, and while they were not looking, do what you wanted.” And, in the end: “I am inclined to satisfy the claims of my own ideals rather than the expectations of others.”

I’m trying to figure out what my life is to become. Not what everyone else expects it to be become or how it should unfold. Not what everyone else sees fitting: The most conventional and efficient way; what an industrious life should be.

No, I see life as so much more than ticked off boxes and filled in formulars proving you are a person. I believe life should be one’s own and that that should be enough. (Ach, my unfailing idealism!). Not so much for selfish reasons, but for the sake of life itself. Granted to you. Asking you to take care of it. Taking the path less traveled. Or, at least, walk the straight main road with everyone else – but a little more ahead or behind; setting the eyes on other parts than the never-ending horizon, letting the gaze wander, become distracted and see what the others do not see. Once in a while letting your legs walk the course of your curiosity. Dare to.

I do not want to keep on freeloading on the welfare system for my own selfish benefits, but I do not want to ‘sell myself’ to the outer world either. It’s almost an instinct to refuse to do so. An instinct not matured or outgrown with age, but consistent and childlike still.

Life is hardly this black-and-white and compromises are to be made, but my damned integrity balks and rears like a stubborn mule, like I’ll become tainted if I compromise it. Or maybe it is something else? Fear? Cowardice? All of them?

I wrote a poem about fluctuating between worlds, of lives half-lived, and it’s true. I need to get out of my comfort zone and the ‘security’ of fictive worlds and dreams. To face reality. At least, once in a while. To dare.

And yet …

“A dream is not reality, but who’s to say which is which?”. Besides, “dreams are all I have ever truly owned”.

I ask myself what makes me most happy? Living in a world of dreams and imagination, of fiction and music, or living in the real world? I know the immediate answer as it is, but it is not a happy answer. I wish it was different. That life, for once, managed to let its claws sink into me and hold on. My own, humble attends to do so towards life have proven fruitless, pathetic.

I keep searching for my bravery – and hold onto it.

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Full-fledged INTP? #2

Last time I didn’t get through even half of the relatable ‘You know you’re an INTP when…’-memes, and it has been nagging in the back of my mind ever since. So, now, I finally got my act together and spent some of my buck loads of spare time to write down those I missed (instead of applying for jobs *sigh*). See how many you can tick off for yourself. 😉

You know you’re an INTP when…

… you can be best friends with someone for over ten years yet still not feel any kind of emotional connection.

… you can’t be bothered to proofread before submitting something.

… your default emotion is ambivalence.

… you simultaneously feel inferior and superior to people.

… you try to show amiability by critiquing.

… you reblog so you can read it later, but never get around to it because something else catches your interest.

… you consider yourself your own, longest-running psychological experiment.

… you feel the need to teach your teachers how to teach.

… people ask you “what are you thinking about?”, and your response is “too much…”.

… you tag everything you reblog on tumblr so you can find it again later.

… you are unable to take personality tests and receive accurate results because you know how to manipulate the variables to achieve a particular result.

… you find yourself switching sides in an argument if too many people agree with you.

… the very thought of being an ESFJ makes you shudder.

… death isn’t scary until you remember all the things you need to learn before dying.

… even hanging out with your best friend for too long is tiring.

… you think for someone while trying to determine what they’re thinking.

… once you figure out the person you like, you grow bored of them.

… you have a list of ‘must reads’ or ‘must do’ items that never actually gets read or done.

… you think you’re no good, but think that other people are worse.

… you have lots of “friends” but no one to hang out with.

… you can see patterns in the behavior of other people and act, around, or againt those patterns.

… you strive to blend into the masses while not letting yourself become part of them.

… your catchphrase is ‘I was just thinking that!’.

… you struggle to unite your scientific and spiritual thinking.

… regardless of how many people you know, you don’t belong to any cliques, you’re a drifter.

… in groups you don’t speak up because “It’s so obvious, everyone must already know”.

… you considered stopping reading fiction because ‘its all been done before’, but quickly came back to it to escape reality.

… you submit to the “notion” that quoting every other word is adding “merit” to your argument.

… you say ‘never mind’ after reexplaining it once if they still don’t get it.

… you try to edit and make something shorter, you end up adding even more than you initially cut out.

… you try to write something down but give up because your brain gets too far ahead of your hands.

… you find someone’s brain attractive before all else.

… your interest in someone is mistaken for caring about them.

… you’re supposed to be cleaning your room but instead you reorganise your book shelf and neglect everything else.

… you spend more time arguing with people you agree with than people you disagree with.

… you can’t find the balance between explaining enough so people understand you and explaining so much that they feel patronised.

… you take other peoples ideas, improve, alter and refine them to make them your own.

… you never completely finish things. There is always something left undone.

… by the time you’ve figured out exactly what you want to say the conversation has moved on.

… you fluctuate between getting your act together and acting random.

… you hate superficial people, yet you pretend better than they do.

… people call you a cynic, and you reply that you’re simply realistic.

… you constantly use the phrase ‘but going back to…’.

… small talk not only bores you, but you find it downright insulting sometimes.

… you shun trends and fads purely because they are popular.

… you recluse into your own mind for salvation.

… you decline opportunities to experience things because you can already imagine what it would be like.

… you solve problems in leaps and jumps rather than using a step by step process.

… you are an expert at the ‘but why’ game.

… you like something in theory, but are disappointed by the reality of it.

… you go to bookstores, pick a book then stand in the aisle and read the entire thing.

… social cues have never been a strong point.

… you become tongue-tied when you try to explain your emotions.

… you believe no one else understands the true meaning and beauty of irony.

… you edit your own posts so that they are precise or to avoid finality.

… if you had a super-power, it would be the ‘revise’ button.

… you like all types of music, but only really good music.

… you find yourself in situations where you don’t have time for anything, even if you have all the time in the world.

… you come up with brilliant ideas for your blog but forget them well before you can actually make the posts.

… characters other people believe to be weird or crazy seem relatively normal to you.

… you will argue any side of an argument just to find out what the other person’s rationality on the matter is.

… you are clueless in how to properly respond to random displays of affection.

… you spend excessive amounts of time trying to decide what to post/reply, then just end up deleting it entirely.

… you sound uncertain to other people, even though you’re ∼99.99% certain that you’re correct.

… you know more inside of your head than outside.

… you have pondered over the merits of being intelligent versus knowledgable.

… you would download the entire Interweb into your brain.

… you make completely random yet accurate observations.

… you wish there was a ‘M’ option for Y/N questions.

… you are most attracted to interesting people, people who don’t give everything about themselves away.

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Going with your gut

It’s not easy to go with your gut.

At least, I tell myself I’ve gone with it so far and stubbornly continue to do so.

However, I use it as an excuse in too many situations where I should make a hard decision and compromise, but instead just say that ‘it doesn’t feel right’ and that ‘I choose to go with what my gut tells me’. That ‘it has worked so far’.

On the one hand, one should celebrate such an idealistic, almost romantic notion of ‘following your gut’. On the other hand, it’s quite naive, really. Because life is about making hard choices; you cannot avoid or outrun them.

Though, you could argue – as I did in the beginning here – that going with your gut is a hard choice. Simply because – in a society where everything, including choices, has become too caught up in ‘the risk of it’ – few dare to do so or stand by it.

Or again, it may just be a part of the excuse of not making the other hard choices.

Ugh, I honestly don’t know anymore. Going with your gut certainly isn’t practical or well thought-through. It just … happens. It’s instinct and intuition all wrapped up in one. It’s a survival technique of sorts, I guess. A force to be reckoned with, just like my imagination. And reason so often struggles to intervene. What one should or should not do gets all mixed up in this; an exhausting, 24/7 internal battle of what is the best way to go about it, so, in the end, you just give up and decide to go with the flow – thus go with whatever instinctive feeling that flows through your gut. It makes life less structured, less predictable, and from the looks of it rather privileged and almost hedonistic. But can I really brutally force my reason through and repel what is my instinct – simply in order to have a more planned-out, outwardly pleasing life?

No, I don’t want to. I feel like I must do what I feel is right and yet, I’m perpetually conflicted about it.

It is not easy to stand alone in this, but, in the end, I don’t think I can ever turn off my gut feeling.

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In badly need of a reality check

amelie6

When will it ever really hit me?

I’m such a romantic, old fool.

No, not decisively romantic. Nor sentimental. Cynic-romantic. Arrogant and naive, idealistic and self-deprecating at the same time. Like constantly running a voice-over from a film noir inside my head. (Seriously, the commentary is switched on 24/7.)

I wonder on which level of development as a Type 5 INTP I currently find myself? I think and hope I’m (still) on an average level given my polar (or complementary, depending how you see it) cynic-romantic relationship with the world. No matter how pointless this perspective feels at times, with no definitive answers or meaning, it also sustains me, ironically and stubbornly infusing hope and pulls me back from the edge – or sometimes urging me to take the jump (in a positive sense).

Yet, I fear sliding down a slippery slope; of isolating/detaching myself further from the world if it continues to disappoint or I disappoint myself in aligning myself with it. Perhaps rooted in my feeling of having no purpose other than existing? However, more often, I find the fault lying within the world than in me. And I guess that is a rather ambivalent notion, since, on the one hand, it distinguishes me from those who – in desperation and despair of not conforming or finding meaning – end their own lives and, on the other hand, makes me somewhat deluded into being ‘blameless’ concerning what happens in my life. Both, in a sense, are true, I guess.

This leads way to why this back-and-forth, cynic-romantic pull also sustains my sense of being caught between a rock and a hard place as I’ve so often mentioned on this blog. It enables and feeds a passivity (or even a depression) to do nothing at all because there seems to be no real meaning in doing it anyway, in the end. That – combined with the knowledge that life is absurd and most things happen by luck, unluck and coincidence – takes most of the control out of one’s hands, rendering most actions and ways of life pathetic and deluded; as means to distract ourselves from this lack of control.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. And that may be a delusion in itself. Another deduction and excuse to do nothing about it. Another knowledge that does nothing to lessen my frustration, passivity and sense of pointlessness but instead drives me into circles.

I’ve got no narrative in my own life. Thus the lack of purpose. I can live in and make out everybody else’s narrative but not my own. And reality is there for me to make it in and to guide me, yet I feel like there’s a gulf between us. I’ve become too accustomed to live in a world outside reality and only exist in reality. As author Richard Wright once so aptly put it: “Whenever my environment had failed to support or nourish me, I had clutched at books…”

Is fear and knowledge holding me back? Probably. The cynic romantic in me pulls me back and forth from the edge of the gulf in an eternal loop. And I wonder when it will tell me to jump or let me – in order to take the chance and reach what should be more real. Because I fear what I will become in this otherwise eternal stasis.

*revised 30/1/17*

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