Nothing makes
sense.
I
used to be able to be calm. To set things aside for a few moments every
morning, bow before the little statuettes inside my cupboard, and breathe in
the name of praying. Set aside everything to be thankful, or ask for a little bit
more, or, usually, both. When I took stock of my life, I found satisfaction in
the inventory. I found desire for what I wanted to have, and I found gratitude
for what I had.
When
I try to take stock now, I find noise. I try to set everything aside and pray,
but the everything pushes back, tells me that the Converse sign on my high-tops
has worn off, that the gas cylinder has lasted for a surprisingly long time,
that I need to talk to a friend, not fuck up at work, save more, instruct
the maid to switch off the lights before she leaves, find time to work out, do
this, and this, and this, and this. When I try to think of what I want, I find
a blank chit. Even “world peace” doesn’t come readily to mind. I have
everything I could need, and want none of it.
I used to be able to
make most things fun. When I had to study, I’d sit in a café, look at the
people around and talk to my friends, pass or ace my exams and sleep well at
night. When I had to pack or clean, I’d put on a playlist and chat with my
roommate, find fulfilment in the simple movements putting my life together.
When I had nothing to do, I’d switch off all the lights and wander around in
the dark, listening to music and spinning stories in my head, of a singer and a
princess, love and heartbreak, family and friendship. When I wanted to think, I’d
take a walk, and the thoughts would flow readily, gently, kindly. I had grown
accustomed to being kind to myself, accustomed to a mental state that allowed
me to be happy with who I was and where I was.
Now, I try to listen to
music while I work or shower – I don’t have to clean much anymore – and it’s a
task to figure out what I want to listen to. I try to sit in a Starbucks and
work, and the scent of my coffee fails to untangle my wound-up heart. I walk to
work and I look at the trees and the pond and feel the breeze stirring my hair,
and wonder how fat I look today. I think about talking to my friends and my
family, and it feels like a chore. I switch off the lights and try to listen to
music and spin stories, and I hate what I find inside my head.
In January, I
considered myself an intrinsically happy person. I was the optimist of any
group I was in.
In March, I was flat
on my back in a mountain in Iceland, watching the Northern Lights, and filled
with an ethereal light of my own.
In December, I am in
an office cubicle, putting up my best friend’s doodle and wondering what I’m
doing there.
It’s almost the new
year, and for the first time in years, I have nothing to say about it.
~Sam
