A reflection on life ‘n stuff.
I’ve come to the conclusion that myself, and many other people in the late-teens/early-twenties age group must love being miserable. Being troubled is trés chic: if my scowl or cigarette doesn’t point out my disillusioned attitude to life, just look at my mismatched socks and bed hair and you’ll see that #idgaf.
I’m (forgive me,) intelligent, artistic, well-adjusted, going to university, have a scholarship, and don’t have daddy issues; I guess you could say I have the world at my feet, as do thousands of other people my age. But that’s the problem. I’m not saying I want to have to fight against gender discrimination, political oppression or censorship, but a little challenge would be nice. I cannot think of one serious obstacle that could prohibit me from achieving the goals I have set out for myself, besides my own entirely preventable apathy. Except maybe money, but all that requires is hard work and not having a penchant for expensive tapas bars.
Our limitless lives crave restrictions and limitations. It’s hardly a new revelation that being told we can’t do something is the greatest incentive to do it.
It may be out of necessity, then, that I developed anxiety. For me, it’s an overwhelming panic about the acute awareness of my own mortality. Deep stuff. It makes me feel incapable of achieving any task, but a part of me is quietly rejoicing that I have this debilitation I can blame. I can think of two great opportunities, among others, I abandoned : to design a business’ logo, and to design the cover of a book to be published because of “personal issues”. Anxiety is real, but a healthy dose of realism can be just as enlightening as it might be depressing. When you believe that life is devoid of meaning it’s hard to stay level on the spectrum: either nothing really matters so it ain’t worth doing shit, or, you may as well do the best you can because this is all we’ve got.
Oh, and if you think that life has meaning and you want to keep it that way, do not read The Stranger by Albert Camus. That book simultaneously ruined my life and made it infinitely better.
