It’s another monday morning. The air seems thicker. Everything is slightly too cold, too clammy, too bright and too loud. My eyes feel swollen, imaginary oedema… My head could be a fluid filled sac and the longer I stare at the-world-which-wont-go-away, the greater the pressure is perceived.
For the moment I want to escape this place to the land where I feel like I belong. I feel dirty, and it seems that trying to wash myself clean isn’t working. I should just move away to the remote tropics, or some place where it would be correct to wake up feeling like this.
As I walk down the path it seems that everyone is in my personal space. The young Irish woman has high black boots, the Asian boy has an upturned polo. Insomnia is still my ethnicity, I wear an old work jumper and whatever pants I can find. Clean enough, perfectly acceptable but with some stray lint and dog hair which separates us categorically. This difference seems to probe me in a way that remains as uncomfortable as the raw worn soles of my feet which urge me to either limp or stop walking.
But now that the week has started it cannot be stopped. It’s all part of this life long job-interview which I’ve grown old of. It would be depressing but there are plenty of other things to be depressed about on a Monday morning. Looking back over the weekend at the empty hours.. nothing seemed wasted but nothing was produced. The truth is, there were hours committed to work, hours committed to others and time spent recovering. But it’s hard to see it that way. And looking forward at the blank canvas of my calendar I know that this week will contain more hours like this one.
This is typical these days, I can foresee the pain that I’m heading straight into but I don’t even flinch I just continue unabated. I continue to make things difficult for myself; not sleeping properly, not eating properly even when I have every opportunity to get on top. Another assignment where I travel way outside of the scope of the exercise sentencing me to another all-nighter. Another meal that I miss because I have diminished the priority of finding the time, money or ingredients over staying in bed, studying, reading or writing. When these things start catching up with me it’s easy to get angry at myself, frustrated that I’ve placed myself in such an uncomfortable position once again. But there’s no use in remaining angry, sometimes you just have to get on with it.
Looking around the Monday morning environment again though, everyone seems so normal. They seem like they’re doing okay. My eyes jump from person to person, what is their personal crisis? Smart and isolated// stupid and struggling// overweight// no friends// over confident and bound for pain// charismatic but subtly aware of their lack of purpose. There is no mystery in wondering if these people have their own problems.. but I wonder how big their problems are and if they will ever really be realised. How will my charismatic specimen come to realise the depth of his stupidity if he falls in love and dies suddenly at the age of 63 from a subarachnoid haemorrhage? How will the overconfident and increasingly annoying alpha male come to understand the pain that he sets himself up for if it only becomes apparent in the fleeting moment before his falcadore is wrapped around a tree?
More importantly, is it worth expressing, understanding and dealing with emotions or is the mug who lives in ignorance better off? Will they continue, unaware, until the day they die or will it catch up with them, shaking them even harder than it would’ve or manifesting as the root cause behind unwanted behaviours (violence, depression, self harm)..? I’m not wishing bad things upon these people, I simply want to know if the way I’m going about things is pure folly. Do the majority of amphetamine users just go through a phase of living-it-up before they eventually come in to land, making the decision to cut back and eventually ground themselves into the role of being a stable adult? Or do they have to hit the bottom and struggle through a period of change? Once again, it’s not that I think they deserve to suffer, but I’m sure we’d all like to see both sides of the equation.
I also wonder if I’m missing something here? Is there a deeper level where an even more miserable creature exists, scratching away at a journal complaining about the stupid emos who like to think they have a great understanding of the world?