My earlier mention of the first day of LGBT History Month brought me to ponder on my long lasting interest in History and by extension my just as long lasting love of reading and Literature.
The easy and obvious explanation stands in one single little but seminal word: escapism. Using all those stories I tell myself to fly from the grim reality of life. To sore towards pastures new. To an extend, I suppose it is true but not entirely.
I think that this need to loose myself in other people's stories is in fact almost the opposite of escapism. It is, I think, a way for me to actually have a life, rather than fleeing one. It is a way to fill the emptiness, to feel and experience, to live.
People reading this will probably think that I am being melodramatic. And they would be right. This is exactly the point: I absorb stories to feed on the drama I don't otherwise get. Others could call me miserable. To be fair, I probably am too. But as it happens nobody cares enough to bother and if someone actually does, they are certainly not here to say so. No difference to me really.
Almost a year ago, now, I quit my job; with great relief it must be said. This was going to be the start of a whole new life after only a few months of expected barrenness. Yet another attempt to try and change my life. To take the cards in my hand and deal them myself. As usual it didn't work. Barrenness remains such and does not blossom into fertility. I have spent most of that time doing very little that could be termed as productive and certainly nothing that would be recognised as financially viable, by anybody's standards.
The upshot is that I am sitting tonight in front of my screen, typing this in the dark with a huge sense of emptiness weighing on my chest. If emptiness does actually weight anything that is. Should I cut my losses and try and go back to something similar to my former life, knowing that the current apathy will be very hard to shake? Or should I just simply let go. Not something I really know how to do.
The options are limited and dire. If I was lucky enough (!) to have a faith, I could just go down on my knees and relinquish all responsibility into god's lap. I can not even do that. I know that I am the only one who is in a position to get me out. And yet I don't seem to be in any position to do that. I am clueless as to what to do next. This is not a new experience for me but so far this had not been so crushingly all encompassing a one, either.
I am probably just a bit tired though, which usually brings me down. I'll go and watch a film or start on that book for the next reading group. Tomorrow is another day. Probably not different from this one but another day anyway.
The easy and obvious explanation stands in one single little but seminal word: escapism. Using all those stories I tell myself to fly from the grim reality of life. To sore towards pastures new. To an extend, I suppose it is true but not entirely.
I think that this need to loose myself in other people's stories is in fact almost the opposite of escapism. It is, I think, a way for me to actually have a life, rather than fleeing one. It is a way to fill the emptiness, to feel and experience, to live.
People reading this will probably think that I am being melodramatic. And they would be right. This is exactly the point: I absorb stories to feed on the drama I don't otherwise get. Others could call me miserable. To be fair, I probably am too. But as it happens nobody cares enough to bother and if someone actually does, they are certainly not here to say so. No difference to me really.
Almost a year ago, now, I quit my job; with great relief it must be said. This was going to be the start of a whole new life after only a few months of expected barrenness. Yet another attempt to try and change my life. To take the cards in my hand and deal them myself. As usual it didn't work. Barrenness remains such and does not blossom into fertility. I have spent most of that time doing very little that could be termed as productive and certainly nothing that would be recognised as financially viable, by anybody's standards.
The upshot is that I am sitting tonight in front of my screen, typing this in the dark with a huge sense of emptiness weighing on my chest. If emptiness does actually weight anything that is. Should I cut my losses and try and go back to something similar to my former life, knowing that the current apathy will be very hard to shake? Or should I just simply let go. Not something I really know how to do.
The options are limited and dire. If I was lucky enough (!) to have a faith, I could just go down on my knees and relinquish all responsibility into god's lap. I can not even do that. I know that I am the only one who is in a position to get me out. And yet I don't seem to be in any position to do that. I am clueless as to what to do next. This is not a new experience for me but so far this had not been so crushingly all encompassing a one, either.
I am probably just a bit tired though, which usually brings me down. I'll go and watch a film or start on that book for the next reading group. Tomorrow is another day. Probably not different from this one but another day anyway.
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