"I am becoming frantically bored with life…or perhaps I am just crazy. I thrive on inconsistency, yet life here is too inconsistent. Contradictory but true. Life’s too fickle—does what it wants to do when it wants to do it. Perhaps I am only complaining because life is not doing for me what I think it should be doing. Life and its inconsistencies should be aligned with me, in agreement with the decisions I am making in my life. But the opposite seems to be happening. There are too many days where I feel unstable because events are conflicting. Activities are questionable, nonsensical even, but at times there can slip between the cracks some wondrous moment—a time where all pessimistic thought begins to disintegrate—and life is full of unsullied, awe-inspiring whimsicality. This is where the uncertainty comes into play. Those made-for-film moments are too remarkable, too startling to be continuous—nothing amazing is ever eternal. And to reach such a peak, to reach such random peaks at random points in one’s life, causes the in-betweens to be ruthless, ennui-laden moments where one begins to question one’s own existence. Twiddling fingers, sleeping, rummaging through cabinets for food that isn’t there, watching deplorable television programs and daydreaming rather than creating new realities become a habitual norm. And it is a norm that takes on a life force, has a mind of its own—strong willed—as it eventually becomes an aspect of ones life that is not necessarily capable of or liable to change. And a lot of time gets wasted. Pondering instead of doing. Imagining instead of being. Existing but not living. Longing for those peaks, those better-than-cocaine-high moments where things are soaring—life is actually grand. But those moments seem to only exist in the literature one is reading, the film one has set aside time to watch or in the art with which one has taken the liberty to become familiarized. Essentially, one begins to live in a fantasy.
As I lay here racking my brain to find something interesting to do, I can’t help but be overcome with this absurdly intriguing desire to live some other life. In some alrernate reality. Some pseudo-noninterventionist reality that exists only in the worlds of Miller and Baldwin, Bertolucci, Allen and Almodovar, Khalo and Warhol. Some quirkily fascinating, complex and witty, deeply disturbing thing of a life. Pleasurable to say the least—and richly inspired. It seems, though, that my life will never be as one could imagine or wish one’s life to be, as I was not born into extraordinary circumstance, nor am I much of an anomaly that weird and fucked up people would be drawn to attaching themselves to me to suck me into their tragedies. No, I am not so lucky as to have been pulled into such ludicrous circumstance. So here I sit, alone in a dimly lit room—half crazy or at the very least pretending to be—praying for some incredulous thing to plop down into my lap.
A pack of unopened Gaulloises lay on the floor adjacent to my feet. I haven’t yet found the nerve to break the seal and indulge. I look down at the rectangular carton and smile; it seems to be peering back at me, mockingly yet apathetic—uninterested in me for my lack of gull, my inability to commit… my reluctance to partake. I look away, an attempt at salvaging my self-respect. To feel as though I have some sense of control, some level of pride. I glance at my arm and am struck by how flaky my skin is. I begin to scratch feverishly. I stop and blow on the appendage, bits of dead skin rising and falling, eventually becoming a part of the backdrop. I begin to scratch the surface once more—eventually I realize how unsanitary the act is. Abruptly, I stop. I rub my arm gently as if to comfort it. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
I begin to stir, and I move from my position on the floor. I rise, and walk in circles around the disheveled room, stepping over stark white paper and clear plastic water bottles, once-white oxford shirts and saddle-brown wing-tipped shoes. A dampened towel strewn about, an eye mask directly beside it. Wire hangers, socks and coins—dollars worth of coins all splattered about as if the floor were a wishing well. I heard the carpet gasp for breath, as if it were being smothered by the objects; it was already on its last leg though, I thought, so why not let it die. I keep circling. Thinking I would eventually be inspired or grow weary and pass out from exhaustion—at least the act of my having fainted would add a morsel of excitement to an otherwise mind-numbing existence. Nothing happened though. Physical exhaustion never set in, only annoyance at the redundancy of circling a lifeless room.
Sleepless nights, such as the one I am experiencing at the moment, are so intense one hopes to die. The more one tries to sleep, the more tension gathers and builds between one’s brows, and the more absurd and random thoughts begin to appear in one’s mind— one can easily mistake this level of insomnia for going insane. I lay here, physically exhausted, body unable to move from this spot on the bed, yet my eyes are wide open—they are drying out from the lack of lubrication blinking provides. My mouth is forced open by an unremitting yawn. I am still awake, however.
I think I am going crazy…
…Or perhaps I am just fanatically bored with life."