We all need to dump our brains once in a while.

I don’t often write things like this. I probably shouldn’t be posting this either. Write it, yeah, but then put it in a folder somewhere I shall never look at again. Posting it is a dumb idea, and will just result in people looking at it and thinking, “Well, he sure is a little attentionwhore, isn’t he?”

So I probably shouldn’t post it.

I probably have though, if you’re reading it.

Don’t worry, the blog will continue to be focussed on photos and random occurrences in Japan. It won’t be heavy and emo like this all the time from now on. But it is my blog, and I do reserve the right to post whatever I want, so I do hope you’ll indulge me this once.

This will be even worse if I ramble like a moron. Let’s get organized.

Though, I suppose even naming things doesn't always remove the terror.

I am… displeased…? That’s not the right word. I’m not happy, but I’m not unhappy. I’m disappointed, but not? I think a big part of the problem I want to write about is becoming manifest here: I don’t know what to call my problem. Nameless things are terrifying, like some Lovecraftian horror; part of the act of naming things is to take their power for oneself, stripping it of all its consummate frighteningness.

I sure am a wordy git.

Alright, organization isn’t working. Time to jump in to the middle.

Stick it to the man!

Point the first: I am rule-bound. I am compelled to follow the rules. I don’t know why. No one else bloody does. Everyone else breaks all the rules and gets ahead, and me? I follow the rules and get left behind.  I can’t bring myself to break the rules though because when I break the rules, I get caught and done for whatever it was I was doing.

Example: on the road, everyone else does 30km over the speed limit, drives like a generally dangerous twat, talking on their cell phones, basically out to kill everyone including themselves. They park wherever the hell they want, no matter how dangerous and stupid a spot it may be. No trouble. I speed a little bit, I get done for speeding. I park in a place I’ve been parking for months with no trouble, along with lots of other people, and suddenly I (and no one else) get a parking ticket.

What the hell, man? I have a complex or something about it. I want to break the rules — the stupid rules, the arbitrary rules — but whenever I do, I get smacked down. Other people can get away with friggin’ everything though. It’s always been like this. It’s made me a boring, cautious, insecure fuck who no one thinks is any fun. All through high school, I was always excluded from things because, “hmm, this is perhaps a little dodgy, and he’d probably rat us out, cuz he’s such a goodygoody,” etc.

I want to break the rules, but I can’t. Why the hell can’t I? I’m not a kid anymore. I’m 3o, for Eris’ sake, why can’t I get over it?

Look, adults doing adult things!

Point the second: Why can’t I move on? I’m trapped, emotionally, at age 16. Now, I can name a few reasons why this may be, but none of them really are very relevant (though Mother’s Day being this weekend, it is apropos that I should think about it).

Everyone around me moved into their late 20s and their early 30s, and are together, proper adults, doing proper adult things, living proper adult lives with their proper adult houses and whatnot. Me? Nothing about me has changed since I was 16, not really. When I was 18, I thought I was making progress. But it ended up tethering me to that time, as I try to relive the emotions I felt then, the emotions I’ve not felt since. Every time I open myself up, I get smacked down, and retreat to the me I was then, which is terrible because that kid was pathetic.

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit since I turned 30. In the weeks leading up to my 30th birthday, I was thinking, “What will distinguish my 30s from my 20s?” Then, just before my birthday, the quake/tsunami/nuclear shit happened, and so that effectively made my 20s pre-3/11 and my 30s post-3/11. Additionally, with Dipshitta Bin Fuckface dead now, that’s another way to mark it. My 20s were when assholes were killing other assholes in search of that asshole; my 30s ought not be like that.

But these are superficial things. These are signposts, these aren’t fundamental changes in the nature of the road. I feel like I’m on rails — on a slowmoving minecart of despair. But that’s stupid, right, because in most quantifiable respects, my life is nothing to complain about. So why am I?

And I feel I can’t voice these feelings most of the time, because people will think, “Bloody whinger.” I know I certainly would if I wasn’t the one whinging.

Not mine. My houseplants are the only hobby I haven't let go.

Point the third: Nothing that used to hold interest for me does anymore.  I just can’t be bothered to do anything related to any of the hobbies I used to have.  That’s really all I have to say about that. Hardly deserving of a whole point.

Despite what seems to be good sleep, I'm dozey all the time.

Point the fourth: I don’t think I’m sleeping properly. I sleep 6-9 hours every night, but I still walk around in a daze, half awake, spacey, victim of micronapping throughout the day, as though I’m severely sleep deprived, but I don’t… I don’t understand how I could be? How can I be sleep deprived when I basically sleep all my free time away?

Are you a poofter?

Point the fifth: There is NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO… point five.

This is a new and unwelcome addition to the scene stuck in my soul.

Point the sixth: Whenever I try to write anything, be it fiction, poetry, lyrics, blog posts, the same themes and images always reappear: a lone tree on a cliff above the sea; the main character searching for someone they’ve lost; in the end, they wait under the tree on the cliff forever for someone who never returns.

Doesn’t matter how I plan, doesn’t matter how I try to avoid it, it always ends up there. I’ve taken to destroying the work when it comes to that stage, but it doesn’t help. Keep the work, get it out entirely, the imagery is still polluting everything I write. Destroy the polluted work, it still comes.

The only change in this paradigm has come recently. Now, before sitting under the tree waiting forever, everything and everyone below is swallowed by the inky black sea. I think it’s pretty clear where that imagery has come from, but what about the original?

SO VERY ANGRY

Point the seventh: I am angry. All the time. Even when I’m not visibly angry, even when I’m not yelling in the car where no one can hear me, I’m still angry, it’s still bubbling just under the surface.

I’m angry about so much that I don’t even know where to start to deal with it. People have suggested meditation, reading assorted Buddhist scholars that helped them find a new sort of peace when they were having a hard time. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that! But… philosophy makes me rage. Everything does. What the hell.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. This is stupid.

Did you know that nowadays, people have quarter-life crises, instead of just a mid-life crisis? Is this one of those? How could I ever possibly know?

I guess I’ll just keep on keeping on, because that’s what I do. Follow the rules, don’t rock the boat, maintain the status quo, nothing will ever ever change.

It's not my heart, I'm not a cardiac patient, but the image serves the purpose.

But I need… something. I don’t know what. There’s something missing, and I don’t know what it is. There’s a hole inside of me, and I don’t even know the shape of the hole, so I can’t go out looking for keys that fit. I need to try every key until one fits but there are so many that it’s overwhelming, and I just don’t bother. I’ve gone this long with the void unfilled, after all, it can’t be that important.

But it clearly is.

But what to do?

What to do?

What?

Thanks for indulging me. Regularly scheduled programming returns Monday.