Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Chugging along.

I want my passions to hit me like the death of someone I love. To make me sad and angry and acutely aware that I'm alive and breathing. To transform me the way death has a knack for changing people. To allow me reason to rage at the world, to defiantly tear myself to shreds marching against a greater power.

I have also resigned myself to the fact that I will never find them, these great passions I speak of. They exist, on a different plane, because mine is one far too barren for them to flourish. They are from a lost period in my life. That's what I say to myself, at any rate. I will live a respectable life, get my respectable job and die a respectable death. Which, when you pause to think about it, isn't too bad. At least I get to have a decent house in a decent neighbourhood. Hur-fucking-ray. Nice car. Evenings glued to the TV. Weekends off. Exactly the kind of life every other person has lived a thousand times over. 

I will not have made a difference. Crunching numbers in some claustrophobic cubicle in a bank office isn't making a difference. My death would be as inconsequential as my life had been. There would be a nice service in a beautiful white crematorium with polished marble floors, and then people would go back to their lives, until they end up in the same damn crematorium again, except this time it's a one-way trip. And outside this vicious cycle, nothing would have changed. 

You would probably know this feeling as well. It would be selfish, snobbish and presumptuous of me to say that no one else would understand. As much as it would be untrue, this declaration would not make me any more human than you are. Somewhere deep down in yourself, you must have contemplated this situation seriously, at some point in your life, except not everyone gets answers. That's fine. Everyone else is handling it just fine. It's just me with the blank stares when people talk about enjoying life.

I am working very hard these days. I flit from one task to another, I set things in motion and I don't stop to let my mind do things to me. I run like a well-oiled machine. My bank would love me.

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