This is not to say that there won’t be anything here in the near future, but I’ve reached a point that all bloggers reach: at some point they end up saying all that was once unsaid and that they felt they needed to say or else they would die. Thanks to the modern-day miracle of the net I’ve been able to say everything that was within me and feel like I built up some sort of opus if you combine this site (2008 and 2009) with my two “me in Bolivia” based sites (Bolivia Tracker, 2005 and 2006, and Second Chapter, late 2007 to early 2008).
I don’t mean this in a deadly emotional way but I don’t think there’s anything left for me to say now for the moment; there’s nothing really festering away that I can put a fresh spin on, as all of the stuff about apostate authors, washed-up soulstresses, obscure South American countries and general moodsetting is now out there. I don’t think there’s anything ‘new’ inside me for the time being. I’ve run out of inner material and any opinion I may proffer at this point would merely be empty theorising from a person who was never strong enough to live through the details.
I’ll tell you a story: one day a confused young Hercules was wandering through the hills when two young women offered him a life’s choice. The first choice was pleasure, a live of ease and plenty. The other choice was virtue, a life of struggle that would eventually end up worth the pain. He chose virtue and ended up accidentally killing his family and then in reparation slaved away on his twelve impossible labours, a terrible burden that he nonetheless achieved and incidentally in the process got rid of a few monsters and made Ancient Greece a better place. He gave up his happiness for the greater good.
Let me tell you: I would not choose virtue in a million years. We no doubt end up as better people on the other side of the struggle but I have not yet been able to deal with the struggle in the first place, and so never improve. I argued with a girl once: she said there are things we’d never repeat but it’s good that we got through them once; I asked, so why do them if we hate them in the first place? The answer is obvious; through the struggle we’re improving our futures and toughening ourselves up for a world in which strength is everything. Yet I’ve never been able to go against my emotions and push through; I’m just not strong enough. And I could try and it would no doubt be much better on the other side of the struggle, but I don’t want the pain and humiliation of that struggle. So I never improve.
I can’t see what’s left to make myself more multi-faceted, in an emotionless way I’ve lost hope. I could spend another half-year kicking it in South America, the only place that has given me swagger; or I could stop, marry a girl, have a child and pass the baton on. But there’s only one girl on the planet to whom I fit her specifications and who fits mine, and I suspect her specifications won’t lead to long-term contentment for either of us.
I look at society and see a world that’s wrong. Structurally things are actually massively improving: less sexism and racism, slightly more social justice, people all have mobile phones and more money, and yet to me in a social sense things seem to be falling. We’re always talking about sex yet have lost the magic of sex. I started teaching in a school and can never see past the negativity, my glass is always half- to three-quarters empty. I don’t want to be there, I don’t want to talk to people. I want the world to disappear into a black hole except for me and a wife and maybe one or two friends.
If I die when I’m 100 then I have seventy-two years left, or else we have three years left if the panicky misinterpretations of doomsday prophesies of December 21, 2012 turn out to be true, and since I’ve had the job I’ve been so depressed that I actually hope the latter is true. Suicide is wrong because there is always something new out there and it’s wrong to miss out on that, and besides that I like who I am and have things to offer others and I don’t want to lose those refined qualities of mine, but the idea of minutes upon hours upon days upon months of sadness just hanging out for that one possible moment of happiness… I don’t know how to live through the imbalance. I will, but the idea of it seems impossible.
This is my picture, what I feel represents the better side of me: the funk, the colours, the movement, the kinaesthetic and rhythmic confidence. I feel I’m attractive in a covered-up way, but not in a clothes off, summertime show-some-skin way, so this pic works there too. I think I have a spark that is unable to express itself in the social, talking-based society that we live in, but I can always wait for moments like these to present themselves. Thank you for reading.