Weeeeell. I feel strange. Everything in my life points towards some significance, but as to what significance, I cannot tell. From the moment I wake, to the last few gasps of the day my life feels cinematic. I am living outside of myself, I have no idea of why this should be.
It is almost a feeling of being extra-alive, with the concomitant problems of feeling so much. I'm crying a lot more these days, often for no reason. I got back from work tonight, sat in my chair and just wept. I have no idea why.
When I wake, I'm like a bullet, I tear into the day. My workrate when I'm in my job leaves others shaking their heads. The long hours on the track, or on the treadmill, or doing laps of the woods or lengths of the pool, the thousands of situps, the solitary nature of the training regime I've imposed on myself for reasons I remain unsure of all add up to a growing sense of alienation from pretty much everything. My answer to everything is like Boxer's in Animal Farm. Work harder. I love it, I love to work, I love the sensation of the pain piling on, need me in two hours early? Great, I'll be there three hours hourly. Want me to take three customers to the rest of the restaurant's one? No problem. I'll make their drinks, do their bills, phone their cab. Fuck, if I drove I'd take them home myself. Last week, rather than sensibly getting the staff to help me close down I sent them all home, did it all myself, it took me two hours and I was so happy. I rememebr descending the stairs with a case of wine on my shoulder, my shirt soaked with sweat, the exhaustion almost causing me to fall. I could barely see the digits when I punched in the alarm code, I have no memory of going to bed. At two in the morning I'm the one chiding those ten years younger than me for their lack of energy. I am a monster, I don't get it. Forgive the rambling but I'm working through this. I am not me.
But what work should I be doing? The writing seems to have dried up, handily just short of the biggest gig of my life. I am devoid of inspiration, the same sense of wellbeing I used to get from a long and drunken session at the keyboard now arrives somewhere in the sixth mile, which, typically, I have chosen to run at the absolute height of the days height, if my knees don't buckle when I get back, then I haven't run hard enough.
WHAT WHAT WHAT? What the hell is happening to me? Or is nothing happening at all? I am over-dramatising the usual inchoate twentysomething sturm and drang? Am I simply thinking about this all far too much? Answers on an "hilarious" e-postcard plz ok thnxbye.
It is almost a feeling of being extra-alive, with the concomitant problems of feeling so much. I'm crying a lot more these days, often for no reason. I got back from work tonight, sat in my chair and just wept. I have no idea why.
When I wake, I'm like a bullet, I tear into the day. My workrate when I'm in my job leaves others shaking their heads. The long hours on the track, or on the treadmill, or doing laps of the woods or lengths of the pool, the thousands of situps, the solitary nature of the training regime I've imposed on myself for reasons I remain unsure of all add up to a growing sense of alienation from pretty much everything. My answer to everything is like Boxer's in Animal Farm. Work harder. I love it, I love to work, I love the sensation of the pain piling on, need me in two hours early? Great, I'll be there three hours hourly. Want me to take three customers to the rest of the restaurant's one? No problem. I'll make their drinks, do their bills, phone their cab. Fuck, if I drove I'd take them home myself. Last week, rather than sensibly getting the staff to help me close down I sent them all home, did it all myself, it took me two hours and I was so happy. I rememebr descending the stairs with a case of wine on my shoulder, my shirt soaked with sweat, the exhaustion almost causing me to fall. I could barely see the digits when I punched in the alarm code, I have no memory of going to bed. At two in the morning I'm the one chiding those ten years younger than me for their lack of energy. I am a monster, I don't get it. Forgive the rambling but I'm working through this. I am not me.
But what work should I be doing? The writing seems to have dried up, handily just short of the biggest gig of my life. I am devoid of inspiration, the same sense of wellbeing I used to get from a long and drunken session at the keyboard now arrives somewhere in the sixth mile, which, typically, I have chosen to run at the absolute height of the days height, if my knees don't buckle when I get back, then I haven't run hard enough.
WHAT WHAT WHAT? What the hell is happening to me? Or is nothing happening at all? I am over-dramatising the usual inchoate twentysomething sturm and drang? Am I simply thinking about this all far too much? Answers on an "hilarious" e-postcard plz ok thnxbye.
Comments
Post a Comment