Far away, in a dimension that exists merely as an oversight on the part of an omnipotent, forgetful, and half-loopy Creator, exists the Discworld, where they call Death the thief of time. Now, there are many things the people of Discworld are, and wise is not always one of them. For the most part, at least. And like any reasonable person, I hold opinions that are contrary to popular sentiment, even if it's just popular Discworld sentiment.
Discworld's Death is a pleasant old chap, given to bouts of eccentricity, but he does the work given to him well and on time, something I'm told is one of the signs of a well rounded person - A term that's very similar to "the one" in that the people they describe don't exist. And you gain rather than lose fat chasing after possessing/becoming one. Except in Death's case, "well-rounded" wouldn't exactly apply. On a related note, I wonder if that's the Laughing Buddha's secret...
But well, I've never feared death, to tell you the truth. I mean, what's there to fear? Not death itself, but the pain that some modes of death cause. I don't want to feel pain. I can see the appeal of euthanasia for the terminally ill and I think it's inhuman that people oppose it on pseudo religious/moral grounds.
No, my friends. The real thief of time, despite what the not-so-honorable and clearly not-so-informed denizens of the Discworld may claim, is anxiety.
Yes, anxiety. Along with the d-word, depression (and not the other d-word), it's one of those terms that's thrown around a lot these days, with no regard for its weight, like how Obelix throws around menhirs like it's nothing. Well, that's fine. It's hard to feel strongly about something when you don't have anything invested in it. It's the same reason I didn't care all that much about the Subrata Roy/Sahara case. And it's why most people won't know what you're going through, it's why they can't look the elephant in the room in the eye.
And it's always something different, really. Anxiety camouflages itself in our fears, which are as multifaceted as our dreams.
Scrambling away from the invisible mental borders of well-being is the mind that realizes what little it has to grasp on to for support, so that it can weather the storm that is its unstable existence, its unsteady contract with reality. It whimpers when the evidence that labels it UNFIT TO FUNCTION heaps on and it closes its eyes and sings itself to sleep, lest it lose itself forever.
Acceptance is a bitter pill to swallow, but it's a lot harder when you don't know what the ingredients are. 'Coz, unlike the vast majority of modern pharmaceuticals, it's a DIY preparation, with each person's dose a unique mix. In a way it's ironic, hipsters with their new-age DIY culture were beaten to it by one of the oldest of human instincts, barring survival. And sex. It's been millenia now and we still haven't outgrown that one. Which is why we've been here for millenia, so it's just as well.
And it's like a YA fantasy/sci-fi series, all over again. You know what I mean.
An idyllic existence interrupted by looming danger. A hero's (or heroine's) decision to do something about followed by a training period. Soul searching. The adversary approaches. Conflict ensues. Victory. Fin.
The part that's most relevant here is the juicy little section where the kid (or young adult, if you prefer) learns what it is to be someone, and what responsibility is. It's where they learn what it means to be an individual, really. After all, that's the anchor we all cast out into the vast seas around us in that state of pseudo/semi-adulthood that is our twenties.
I was told by a friend that we make our own luck. But I don't know how I'm supposed to whip up this batch of Felix Felicis I so need.
Through all the haze in my mind I can see the outlines of a few larger relics of thoughts standing tall. They grow like trees, but faster. Every second you spend thinking about something that gives you cause to think, it grows. And these structures never really go away.
One thing that towers above everything else is a monolith with sign. On it, in a shaky hand, is the word "writing".
Sure, I've had blogs where I posted stuff before. 3, the last time I counted. And my phone, laptop, and Drive collectively have numerous unfinished drafts. But that's all they are. Drafts. It's not a particularly nice word. Delete the "s" and append "beer" to the end and yeah you've got something much more pleasant, something you'd actually want to spend time in a bathtub with.
My experience with "writing", to the extent that what I've attempted to do over the year can be called that, has taught me three important things.
First and foremost being, you can't write without reading a lot of stuff. Journalism, or literature preferably. Fine, that much goes without saying. And in my case, I didn't have to exert myself to get there. I've always loved reading books. And listening to music too.
The second thing is that everything hinges on one key element - Storytelling. Having things to say. Having thoughts to express. Having opinions that you can put across.
And the third part - Being able to actually express things well. Wit. Humor. Good writing. Metaphors. Descriptive narratives. The like.
But well, like a hamster running on an exercise wheel, I was rarely, if ever, able to escape my trappings - Mine being the confines of point one. I read stuff and I enjoyed it. Good.
But I could never find the words to say. The house of cards that was my faith in what I could do collapsed. I could never say anything worth saying. Never. I'd end up saying something halfway and then stopping. Always. Every single time. And I'd dread how mechanical what I wrote would sound.
Speaking of words, a friend of mine references the Bee Gees song of the same title every now and then. I've always maintained that it's a depressing song, something she vehemently disputes. If only she knew why I felt that way...
And well, I look around. My mind tells me that I see people I know who can write hundreds of words in a flow, most of it with some underlying theme, based on something dormant they wish to express. And that's not all. They manage to inject humor, wit, and some inventive writing into what they write. And there's so much of it. All of it describing actual thoughts, opinions, observations, and ideas. And it seems to me that all of this comes effortlessly to them. And it all has character and chirpiness.
That's not all! Some people have superpowers, my mind tells me. They can read lots of stuff. They can read stuff in multiple languages. They can remember lots of what they read. They can recall it with ease too. And you can't do these things, it goes on to say.
On the other hand, I'm perpetually running on my exercise wheel, with nothing to show for it. Sometimes I wonder - Why run when the results are rigged? And am I meant to be running at all?
I've tried figuring out why it is that I'm this way. If there's a bug in my programming, so to speak. And, if I can extend that metaphor - If I'm trying to run a program on the wrong OS. Maybe I wasn't meant to run this program. Maybe there's something I lack. Something innate that I don't have that makes all the difference. And I don't quite know how to feel about that.
Coincidentally, when I was planning my trip to East Asia, we named it our SoChi trip. Short for South China. But also the name of a city in Caucasian Russia, where the graves of the Circassian shahids lie silent in the winter.
Discworld's Death is a pleasant old chap, given to bouts of eccentricity, but he does the work given to him well and on time, something I'm told is one of the signs of a well rounded person - A term that's very similar to "the one" in that the people they describe don't exist. And you gain rather than lose fat chasing after possessing/becoming one. Except in Death's case, "well-rounded" wouldn't exactly apply. On a related note, I wonder if that's the Laughing Buddha's secret...
But well, I've never feared death, to tell you the truth. I mean, what's there to fear? Not death itself, but the pain that some modes of death cause. I don't want to feel pain. I can see the appeal of euthanasia for the terminally ill and I think it's inhuman that people oppose it on pseudo religious/moral grounds.
No, my friends. The real thief of time, despite what the not-so-honorable and clearly not-so-informed denizens of the Discworld may claim, is anxiety.
Yes, anxiety. Along with the d-word, depression (and not the other d-word), it's one of those terms that's thrown around a lot these days, with no regard for its weight, like how Obelix throws around menhirs like it's nothing. Well, that's fine. It's hard to feel strongly about something when you don't have anything invested in it. It's the same reason I didn't care all that much about the Subrata Roy/Sahara case. And it's why most people won't know what you're going through, it's why they can't look the elephant in the room in the eye.
And it's always something different, really. Anxiety camouflages itself in our fears, which are as multifaceted as our dreams.
Scrambling away from the invisible mental borders of well-being is the mind that realizes what little it has to grasp on to for support, so that it can weather the storm that is its unstable existence, its unsteady contract with reality. It whimpers when the evidence that labels it UNFIT TO FUNCTION heaps on and it closes its eyes and sings itself to sleep, lest it lose itself forever.
Acceptance is a bitter pill to swallow, but it's a lot harder when you don't know what the ingredients are. 'Coz, unlike the vast majority of modern pharmaceuticals, it's a DIY preparation, with each person's dose a unique mix. In a way it's ironic, hipsters with their new-age DIY culture were beaten to it by one of the oldest of human instincts, barring survival. And sex. It's been millenia now and we still haven't outgrown that one. Which is why we've been here for millenia, so it's just as well.
And it's like a YA fantasy/sci-fi series, all over again. You know what I mean.
An idyllic existence interrupted by looming danger. A hero's (or heroine's) decision to do something about followed by a training period. Soul searching. The adversary approaches. Conflict ensues. Victory. Fin.
The part that's most relevant here is the juicy little section where the kid (or young adult, if you prefer) learns what it is to be someone, and what responsibility is. It's where they learn what it means to be an individual, really. After all, that's the anchor we all cast out into the vast seas around us in that state of pseudo/semi-adulthood that is our twenties.
I was told by a friend that we make our own luck. But I don't know how I'm supposed to whip up this batch of Felix Felicis I so need.
Through all the haze in my mind I can see the outlines of a few larger relics of thoughts standing tall. They grow like trees, but faster. Every second you spend thinking about something that gives you cause to think, it grows. And these structures never really go away.
One thing that towers above everything else is a monolith with sign. On it, in a shaky hand, is the word "writing".
Sure, I've had blogs where I posted stuff before. 3, the last time I counted. And my phone, laptop, and Drive collectively have numerous unfinished drafts. But that's all they are. Drafts. It's not a particularly nice word. Delete the "s" and append "beer" to the end and yeah you've got something much more pleasant, something you'd actually want to spend time in a bathtub with.
My experience with "writing", to the extent that what I've attempted to do over the year can be called that, has taught me three important things.
First and foremost being, you can't write without reading a lot of stuff. Journalism, or literature preferably. Fine, that much goes without saying. And in my case, I didn't have to exert myself to get there. I've always loved reading books. And listening to music too.
The second thing is that everything hinges on one key element - Storytelling. Having things to say. Having thoughts to express. Having opinions that you can put across.
And the third part - Being able to actually express things well. Wit. Humor. Good writing. Metaphors. Descriptive narratives. The like.
But well, like a hamster running on an exercise wheel, I was rarely, if ever, able to escape my trappings - Mine being the confines of point one. I read stuff and I enjoyed it. Good.
But I could never find the words to say. The house of cards that was my faith in what I could do collapsed. I could never say anything worth saying. Never. I'd end up saying something halfway and then stopping. Always. Every single time. And I'd dread how mechanical what I wrote would sound.
Speaking of words, a friend of mine references the Bee Gees song of the same title every now and then. I've always maintained that it's a depressing song, something she vehemently disputes. If only she knew why I felt that way...
And well, I look around. My mind tells me that I see people I know who can write hundreds of words in a flow, most of it with some underlying theme, based on something dormant they wish to express. And that's not all. They manage to inject humor, wit, and some inventive writing into what they write. And there's so much of it. All of it describing actual thoughts, opinions, observations, and ideas. And it seems to me that all of this comes effortlessly to them. And it all has character and chirpiness.
That's not all! Some people have superpowers, my mind tells me. They can read lots of stuff. They can read stuff in multiple languages. They can remember lots of what they read. They can recall it with ease too. And you can't do these things, it goes on to say.
On the other hand, I'm perpetually running on my exercise wheel, with nothing to show for it. Sometimes I wonder - Why run when the results are rigged? And am I meant to be running at all?
I've tried figuring out why it is that I'm this way. If there's a bug in my programming, so to speak. And, if I can extend that metaphor - If I'm trying to run a program on the wrong OS. Maybe I wasn't meant to run this program. Maybe there's something I lack. Something innate that I don't have that makes all the difference. And I don't quite know how to feel about that.
Like Pechorin in the Caucasus wrestling with his past while broodingly surveying the world from the heights of Dagestan, like Olenin fleeing from Moscow on a troika consumed by thoughts of escaping an insufficiently stimulating past, like Chekhov observing the unwashed masses of Russia walking towards Siberia, barefoot... I'm trying to figure out what drives me and what drives these people. Maybe in the balance lies the answer. Or that's what I tell myself.
Not being able to make enough connections? Insufficient wit? A lack of empathy? A shallow understanding of people and emotions? Inexperience with human relationships? I don't know. I keep running on my wheel.
Not being able to make enough connections? Insufficient wit? A lack of empathy? A shallow understanding of people and emotions? Inexperience with human relationships? I don't know. I keep running on my wheel.
Coincidentally, when I was planning my trip to East Asia, we named it our SoChi trip. Short for South China. But also the name of a city in Caucasian Russia, where the graves of the Circassian shahids lie silent in the winter.
What's it with Russians and fleeing across vast expanses of land anyway? Did they do that just because they could? I'll start my own massive country. With blackjack and hookers.
This isn't one of those (*sniffs affectedly and rolls eyes*) blogs where I tell you how to solve things, or that I know the answer to things. Au contraire mon frere, it's one where I tell you pretty much the virtual opposite of that.
I tell myself that this is something I can do. Write, that is. My friends tell me that too. Repeatedly. Hell, I even do that for a living. But what do my constraints say about me that I can't do this one thing?
Of course, nobody is truly a one trick pony outside their professional lives, not even tortured artists. This isn't my sole anchor, not by a long shot, but well, it's been central to my image of myself for some time now. And I don't know if that's a good thing.
Things are fine now in that they don't consume me all the time anymore. I'm grateful for that. But that's not enough.
As the song goes, "confusion will be my epitaph".
Of course, nobody is truly a one trick pony outside their professional lives, not even tortured artists. This isn't my sole anchor, not by a long shot, but well, it's been central to my image of myself for some time now. And I don't know if that's a good thing.
Things are fine now in that they don't consume me all the time anymore. I'm grateful for that. But that's not enough.
As the song goes, "confusion will be my epitaph".
