Here I am again. It’s been a few days, about a week. I’m okay, mostly. I have been feeling more of the same. Nothing much bad, just generally anxious and terrified of life. I’d like to enjoy something more often. I had this thought that maybe if I keep writing like this, I’ll be able to find things wonderful again. Maybe not all the time, but more than never. Like when I was younger and wrote all the time about nothing important or interesting. Just the sky being the bluest blue and life being wonderful. Not just life, but living, to BE alive! And I thought earlier, also, that even if I keep writing nonsense, nothing anyone will ever want or need to read, so what then? I have not felt or experienced anything worth reading about or writing down. That’s fine. I’ll keep writing because, simply, it’s too much still to keep in my head, too much of a burden to simply exist.
Nothing interesting to be said now or before or ever, but simply that life is generally dull. And it’s those with imaginations that make it interesting. I’ve tried very hard to escape the safety of my own mind, to live an interesting life. I moved far away from home, moved to a big city, did everything that came my way, tried to do new things, traveled alone, went to shows at small venues alone, talked to strangers I met on the internet. But life is mostly dull. Will it ever be anything but? Once in a while, like today, I wonder, why this consciousness in this body now? I can never find an answer. It’s a certain silliness to ask such things, to even think about it. Who could possibly answer me? But then I refuse to believe that the mind and body are one entity. They are two separate things meshed together through fate. They must be, right? The body is so obviously material, but the mind is something else. My greatest fear is that the consciousness never goes away. That I might witness my own death and forget loved ones through time. I’ve grown up believing that our souls live forever, but we are forced to forget our previous identities, our past selves. We continue to feel as if we’ve lived before, and have lived for a long time, that things constantly happen to us again and again and we don’t remember why. Déjà vu.
I had some other unrelated thoughts today: I finished the 1968 Russian film adaptation of War and Peace and thought how life could be defined by all the lists we write.
