for the life of me

I cannot sleep. I’m annoyed at someone, and tired of pretending I’m not, and I can’t sleep for thinking, to quote one of my favourite PJ Harvey songs. 

So how much of life is pretending? Is that what being an adult is? Even at 40, I haven’t figured it out. Does our life amount to pretending we believe in things, that we are happy, that we are fulfilled, that we are content? How much of our dissatisfaction is our own damn fault? I know that I let life happen to me, without making the effort to direct it. This doesn’t mean that many of the things that have happened are not beautiful. I am an impulsive, slightly daft person who has never been good at planning. And I used to be wild and angry and self-destructive, and reaching 40 wasn’t at the top of my to-do list. 

So life happened. And I didn’t think ahead, because I didn’t expect to make it all that far. I don’t think many around me when I was younger expected me to make it either. Being written off as a complete fuck up is quite liberating, but it has its drawbacks. I just don’t know what to do with this person I’ve become. This person who is either content or apathetic. I’m not sure I know the difference. 

Does it matter, really? Readjusting one’s expectations can do wonders for one’s outlook. We’ve got one life, and one shot. So we settle. I guess that’s what we all do, to some extent. 

And the fact that I’m even having this “deep,” contemplative internal monologue is actually making me feel a bit ill. I am so fortunate to live in the First World. I have the leisure to ponder all of this existential bullshit without being preoccupied by things like survival. 

God, I’ve got to get over myself. 

Yes, I’m annoyed with someone. Someone who can be a bit of a gaslighter at times. So what? At least my neighbourhood isn’t being barrel-bombed by some failed dentist-turned-Iranian-puppet. My town isn’t being gassed. My local church isn’t being firebombed by militants. My home isn’t being overrun by homicidal death-cultists with a fetish for beheading. 

My water is clean, I have too much food, I have a cellphone that cost more than my first car. I live in a country that still, for the most part, values freedom of expression and religion, where the cost of living is low, and I have the right to be pissed off and sanctimonious about anything my bored little heart desires. 

Put that way, I kind of want to tell myself to shut the fuck up. 


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