There are times to be serious,
even if it’s the kind of sarcastic serious that looks full of composure but, simply, is a cynical resignation. I spend much too much time wondering how everyone else is doing it. Succeeding or failing, whatever. But living. Not struggling to figure out how to feed themselves enough times a day. Or take out the recycling, and get the mail. Or pull some weeds in the backyard. There’s a 45 minute precursor for me to get out of bed. Another before I end up in the shower. It resembles OCD a bit, in that there’s a vague feeling I’m reaching for before I feel ready to (insert verb here). There’s a lot of inaction that fuels stress before erupted in a fury of doing. Often undirected doing, but sometimes hyper-focused. I’ll write ten thousand words or clean the house without really realizing I’m doing it. I know I’m writing, but the volume is ignored.
But there’s always something. How overwhelming is life? I don’t think of good old days, or long for any previous periods of time, but there is a level of complexity to being alive right now that probably wasn’t present prior to democracy. Not to mention cell phone cameras. And it’s this weird pull of hating how informed one should be. Keeping up with politics so insane rich people stop hurting less fortunate people and trying to send up back to pre-democracy. And police shootings. And killer whales. And people ignoring that pigs are smarter than their pets. And much more just at home. Then looking out at the rest of the world. Countries I can’t understand. Countries that don’t look like life compared to smart phones and virtual reality. How much easier would it be to forget all of that and have fun? Then Peter Singer shows up again with John Stuart Mill and Jeremy Bentham. I’m neck deep in Julian Baggini.
I go to bed at the same spot I woke up in.