Complex Beings Are Why We Don't Bother.

Purpose is a funny old thing. Everybody wants one, most people feel they have one, and nobody operates particularly well without. It can be another person, a child or partner, it can be a routine; job, exercise, rest and play, it can even be a concept. Truth, justice, happiness. If we’re honest, we can all probably follow our driving force – our purpose – back to it’s foundation in concepts, and happiness is a recurring theme. It’s relative of course. Happiness shifts between us to mean different things, one mans pleasure is another mans pain, a rich man can appear poor. Some people may even find that happiness, or contentment itself leaves them cold. The fire’s gone out and there’s no perceivable need to relight it. Those people can often be creative types, like authors, actors or comedians. Misery, it seems, only invites company because it’s had some bloody good ideas. So to find yourself in a good place, with little torment, self created or otherwise, can stop you dead. Um. I imagine.

You guys are good. Yeah, it’s me, I mean me. Can’t keep nothing from you, can I? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not seriously about to moan about being happy. I’d love to, I’m just not feeling it. Too chipper. It’s just that now all the upheaval is done with and things have plateaued, there’s nothing that immediately irks me, nothing there to prod and poke, to irritate and provoke. Even conversations with friends and colleagues – ordinarily a constant source of debate and intrigue – have started to feel stale. Differing opinions are everywhere and I’m not sure I care anymore, yes, occasionally someone will say something interesting or different, but other than those rare moments it’s the same old recycled small talk. No one’s really listening because no one’s really talking, as if just giving the impression of input, thought and discussion is enough. So that’s dull. Then there’s the news, something that you can usually find something of interest in, or rather used to be able to, because for a while now it’s all been very samey – War, Death, Protests, Lies, Poverty – and round and round it goes. So I no longer bother myself with current affairs.

My writing often suffers when I’m happy, or not miserable – whatever – due to the lack of creativity through inner torment. This has meant a lower output in all areas, including (as you’ve no doubt noticed) the old blog. The women are usually a fine source of deep, personal contemplation, what with their apparent universal agreement that I am to be left well alone. Ordinarily I would be doing laps around a pool of despair and loneliness, wearing a slowly deflating rubber ring found in a river of despondency. Not though. Perhaps rather stupidly, I have mildly conditioned myself to not be bothered about it at the moment, partly because it’s not the be all, being with someone, and partly because it’s often said that love will find you when you least expect it. So I’m expecting it as little as possible. I expect that the irritation of not feeling creative because of being mostly content, will create a shallow well of depression from which I can hoist up the bucket of words, but until then I’m stuck with overly complicated, laboured metaphors, and so are you.

It’s typical isn’t it. Not happy when I’m not happy and miserable when I am. I’m a complex being, which is probably why I don’t often bother, but one can’t sit staring at an invisible horizon forever because it accomplishes nothing and makes one look a bit mental. To that end I suppose I should get proactive and really try to bring me down a bit, maybe an unsubtle hint that my debauched weekend has caused a resurgence of my double chin. Or perhaps point in a mirror and laugh because the chap in it is, although comfortably, still alone. Or piss down my leg a little bit at the urinal and spend the rest of the day letting me know about it loudly, even though I must already know because it’s bloody obvious, and because I did it. Something to break out of this pissing rut. This pissing boring, stupid rut. This pissing, boring, stupid, happy, pleasant rut.