It's the day after Christmas. Things have quieted down somewhat from the extended period of small torments I've subjected myself to in the past couple months. Getting sick from days at the prefecture to renew my visa, dropping every electronic device that I own on one occasion or another, dropping my keys on my cat while opening the front door, getting two speeding tickets in somewhat rapid succession, missing a month of work for no reason ("You're wasting time", a certain someone reminded me), shattering my rearview mirror while driving, losing my credit card to an a.t.m. (I haven't bothered getting a new one yet), accidentally paying for a speeding ticket with credit from my empty bank account, and finally, hydroplaning on the highway, totalling my (technically my parent's) car last october.
But for now, in these past two months of using public transport, my woes have been lesser. I assume there is a correlation between this and not having a car anymore. In any case, it has given me a small window of time during which I can reflect on all of my shortcomings. Of course, I am in no way taking advantage of this window. Like I ever had in the past. But I guess it is still a good thing that further embarrassments have ceased, at least for a time.
The primary sensation of these events gives me the mental image of being quietly and softly pushed inside of a box. More often then not, the pushing is my own doing, or my own fault. It is done with all the comfort my current financial situation allows, that is to say, quite softly. But the image is unpleasant nonetheless. My body folds in into an unnatural and undignified form, as I continuously prove to myself and to the universe in general that I am in no way shape or form an adult or responsible enough to perform the most basic tasks such as opening my front door.
But now that I am not publicly embarrassing myself with my own stupidity, I can reflect on the ways in which I am an embarrassment in a more general sense. 24. The number is big, solid and heavy inside of my mind, just like 23 was last year, and just like I am sure 25 will be the next. This thought still lingers: Am I too late? Can I possibly recover from my failures and maybe have a put-together, good adult life by some devine blessing, that is to say, married, settled, financially successful? We can all forget about the two years during which I was a goblin, that darkens the corners of the minds of those who have the misfortune of sparing a thought for me on occasion.
For all of it's anxiety-ridden misery, college at the very least felt like I was on the same track every one else was on, even though my major was unconventional and pointless. But now I'm starting over. Some of the children in my class are 17. Even though numbers are ultimately irrelevant, they are still heavy in my mind. "You're wasting your time"...
It has been written about a lot, but early adulthood is often criticised for a great deal of egocentrism, when one must learn to take care of themselves and learn what makes them happy. I am sure that the criticisms are valid, as are the ones about millennials and their especially high levels of self-centeredness. But at the same time, it makes sense, to spend a great deal of time at the beginning of one's adult life to carefully consider what path will make them the most happy, thus sparing themselves from wasteful suffering.
In my current quest for hedonism, I have cast feelers in a handful of directions, trying to figure out what I want from my ever shortening life and what will make me happy. Unfortunately, my life experiences are few, and the times that I can peer into the lives of others are even more rare. But when they do happen, they more often than not are things I do not want than things that I do. So I have at my disposition a handful of negative experiences or paths I can follow, and one or two positive ones. Clean, white ownership, groups of friends, lite discussions, having a drink around a round glass table, polishing trophies or other forms of memorabilia, keeping a guest room, paintings of flowers, couches, eating utensils... Walls of artwork, cds, newspapers, wireframe chairs, mugs with silly messages, having friends, multiple rooms, framed pictures, sound system, flat screen tv, stacks of shoes, clothes, cardboard boxes, queen sized beds, everything seems wrong. The only place I want to be is inside my mind. The only time I've really been happy in these past months is that moment right before falling asleep, when everything is dark and nonexistent.
That, and that one time I had an afternoon to myself two weeks ago. It felt like the only time I've been alone. Otherwise, I never completely am. I had forgotten how good it felt. Amidst the painless and pointless work days, the long commutes where I struggle to focus on anything, and the drivel of school hours where I am beginning to seriously wonder if programming is for me, that single afternoon of silence made me think "I could live for moments like these".
But for now, in these past two months of using public transport, my woes have been lesser. I assume there is a correlation between this and not having a car anymore. In any case, it has given me a small window of time during which I can reflect on all of my shortcomings. Of course, I am in no way taking advantage of this window. Like I ever had in the past. But I guess it is still a good thing that further embarrassments have ceased, at least for a time.
The primary sensation of these events gives me the mental image of being quietly and softly pushed inside of a box. More often then not, the pushing is my own doing, or my own fault. It is done with all the comfort my current financial situation allows, that is to say, quite softly. But the image is unpleasant nonetheless. My body folds in into an unnatural and undignified form, as I continuously prove to myself and to the universe in general that I am in no way shape or form an adult or responsible enough to perform the most basic tasks such as opening my front door.
But now that I am not publicly embarrassing myself with my own stupidity, I can reflect on the ways in which I am an embarrassment in a more general sense. 24. The number is big, solid and heavy inside of my mind, just like 23 was last year, and just like I am sure 25 will be the next. This thought still lingers: Am I too late? Can I possibly recover from my failures and maybe have a put-together, good adult life by some devine blessing, that is to say, married, settled, financially successful? We can all forget about the two years during which I was a goblin, that darkens the corners of the minds of those who have the misfortune of sparing a thought for me on occasion.
For all of it's anxiety-ridden misery, college at the very least felt like I was on the same track every one else was on, even though my major was unconventional and pointless. But now I'm starting over. Some of the children in my class are 17. Even though numbers are ultimately irrelevant, they are still heavy in my mind. "You're wasting your time"...
It has been written about a lot, but early adulthood is often criticised for a great deal of egocentrism, when one must learn to take care of themselves and learn what makes them happy. I am sure that the criticisms are valid, as are the ones about millennials and their especially high levels of self-centeredness. But at the same time, it makes sense, to spend a great deal of time at the beginning of one's adult life to carefully consider what path will make them the most happy, thus sparing themselves from wasteful suffering.
In my current quest for hedonism, I have cast feelers in a handful of directions, trying to figure out what I want from my ever shortening life and what will make me happy. Unfortunately, my life experiences are few, and the times that I can peer into the lives of others are even more rare. But when they do happen, they more often than not are things I do not want than things that I do. So I have at my disposition a handful of negative experiences or paths I can follow, and one or two positive ones. Clean, white ownership, groups of friends, lite discussions, having a drink around a round glass table, polishing trophies or other forms of memorabilia, keeping a guest room, paintings of flowers, couches, eating utensils... Walls of artwork, cds, newspapers, wireframe chairs, mugs with silly messages, having friends, multiple rooms, framed pictures, sound system, flat screen tv, stacks of shoes, clothes, cardboard boxes, queen sized beds, everything seems wrong. The only place I want to be is inside my mind. The only time I've really been happy in these past months is that moment right before falling asleep, when everything is dark and nonexistent.
That, and that one time I had an afternoon to myself two weeks ago. It felt like the only time I've been alone. Otherwise, I never completely am. I had forgotten how good it felt. Amidst the painless and pointless work days, the long commutes where I struggle to focus on anything, and the drivel of school hours where I am beginning to seriously wonder if programming is for me, that single afternoon of silence made me think "I could live for moments like these".
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