S’been a while since I had an aimless ramble. In fact, it’s been a while since I posted anything. I guess my heart’s just not in it. My heart’s not really been in anything for longer than I even remember.
Blogging, hobbies, work, my weak excuse for a social life, just life, generally – my enthusiasm is shot. I don’t remember the last time I really put any effort or thought into anything, instead I’ve just been on autopilot, going through the motions, my brain not even present let alone engaged.
Things I used to take great pleasure in – writing, in particular – I just don’t feel like doing any more. Why? I don’t know. I feel like I’ve lost my ability to do it well. And I’m not interested in doing something if I can’t do it well; there’s no enjoyment in doing something you’re shit at. I’ve never been the sort of person who enjoys the process of becoming good at something. I need to be naturally good at something to have any interest in it whatsoever. Is that ridiculous? How about losing your ability or flair for something that you used to be good at: is that possible, or is that ridiculous too?
It’s funny. Everything seems to be simultaneously too fast-paced for me to even see the point in trying to keep up, and too monotonous to pique my interest. Like blogging. I stopped trying to keep up with the Joneses on that front a long time ago, and now I just seem to have stopped altogether because doing things at my own pace on my own terms meant I lacked motivation. I stopped regularly reading my Twitter feed and looking at Instagram and reading blogs which filled me with either mind-numbing boredom or angry, rampaging jealousy. It was good for a while, living in blissful ignorance of how far ahead everyone else has got (regardless of whether they got there deservedly through hard work or they just got a lucky break/fit the physical mold for Popular White Blogger status).
Now it’s just.. making me question everything. Why do I even have a presence on the internet? It would be so easy to blame the internet for all my problems. I was in the process of doing exactly that, quietly brooding in an airport early this week, waiting to get on a shitty uncomfortable Ryanair flight home where I was literally too fat to do up the seatbelt. I cannot even begin to tell you how much I wish this was a lie or an exaggeration. It is not. While sitting there, I read this post by one of my favourite writers, Katie Oldham (aka Scarphelia). She’s right. I can’t blame my shit on the internet. The internet is abstract and arbitrary. It shouldn’t be personified and used as a scapegoat.
But who can I blame? Who can I blame for being fat, feeling ugly and worthless and pointless and all those other awesome things that plague me constantly? The obvious answer is me. It’s no one’s fault but my own that I feel like a waste. It’s no one’s fault but my own that I just don’t fucking care enough to change or improve. It’s not really going to make any difference, is it?
Yknow that flight I mentioned I was waiting for? I was mid-flight at the same time the Germanwings plane went down, not far away either. The natural reaction to knowing that it could have been me, should, by all acounts, be a grateful one, one that makes me take stock of my life and appreciate what I have. But no, instead, I found myself wondering what would have happened if it was my flight that went down. Would anyone miss me? Or would the people I leave behind simply be inconvenienced by the things they’d have to deal with as a result? If Colin and I had died on Tuesday, what would happen to our flat? How would the companies we work for find out? Would they be saddened, or simply annoyed that they’d need to replace us on short notice? Would our replacements even know they were taking the role of someone who had died? Who would take responsiblity for terminating our tenancy, disposing of our belongings? Does it even fucking matter?
No. It doesn’t matter. I’m not convinced anything really fucking matters.