death of small things

December 10, 2012

I keep asking this question and I keep getting the same answer. I don’t know. I don’t know, okay. I don’t know.

this blog is incredibly depressing. I feel like my life is a handful of small and constant crises crammed together, bound up in a steady strata of melancholy and confusion, smoothed out by resignation and a consistently surprising ability to survive. if my life were a fruitcake it would be deeply brown and spiced and plain and laced through with cinnamon and fat sultanas and things that comfort and warm and occasionally surprise and delight, subtle and pleasant and not too sweet, and it would be sown thickly through with heavy handfuls of gravel and little bits of wire and staples and fingernails and the occasional shard of glass. it would be a difficult cake to eat.

I talked to an old friend on the internet today and remembered that we were writers, that I used to be, that it was something I was. and one of the things that coming to Christchurch and being barraged with oldnew faces again has brought to the fore is how entirely directionless my life is. Everyone is doing something; everyone wants to do something, everyone has things they’re aimed at, life goals, plans for the next two years, the next ten. And I, I’m drifting, and I’m sitting in a puddle and waiting for something to pick me up and push me along into something new. Traffic, maybe.

I’m stuck and I have been stuck for a while and I’m well aware of this, sitting in my puddle. and the options I consider are all to do with folding in further, curling in like a snail or a crab, pulling away more from making decisions and being independent because I don’t know what there is to be independent for, what there is to go towards. Where I’m going. If life is a journey, I have nowhere to go. I’m lost and directionless and it’s not particularly terrifying, just tired-making, because I have been lost for a while and I still don’t- have anything to go towards, anything to shoot for, no moon to blast at. I don’t have the big reasons. I’m just alive. I still don’t see why.


it would be giving up. it would be admitting defeat, it would be giving in; folding into my parents’ house again, packing everything up, and turning inwards. peeling all the bits of myself out of the job that blunted me and made me more resilient, out of the job I can barely do, the job I don’t want to be. going inwards instead of outwards, receding in as far as the eye can see. growing smaller. you know, when I run away, I run in. I’ve always run in.

there’s running away, and I’ve considered it; going outwards, somewhere else, somewhere entirely different. but what is there for me? I’d just be bringing the same problems, pack ’em up and ship ’em over. I’ve considered running away to join the circus, so many times; the Christian equivalent, the floating bookship for two years. and going outwards frightens me. going outwards is all about running, moving, keeping momentum going, pushing through everything. when you run inwards, everything gets slower and eventually you’re not running anymore, you’re resting and immobile and close to dead. sleeping. is that what I want? what other choice do I have?

I don’t know what I want. does that matter? I don’t know. I don’t think most of this matters. I think sometimes I spend too much time spinning myself into small tight circles of loss and bewilderment, trapping myself in my own bewildered puzzlings. I could pack it all up and just be the outside of myself, all competence and capability and teeth and kickass independence, and never look in again. Would everything really crumble if I stopped looking inwards? if I stopped asking these questions and thinking these thoughts? if I merely functioned and survived and moved, even if I had no idea where I was moving to? but that wouldn’t be a problem; I’d be moving and I wouldn’t care where to because I wouldn’t let myself dwell on this anymore. I could move myself into a circle and never care.

the destruction of myself. I don’t know. I don’t know. life isn’t such a mess as I make it out to be, and it continues still; there are friends and sunlight and baking and cold water; green grass, sandwiches, birdsong, good books, music and small things. But I don’t know if I can construct my entire life out of small things anymore. Life must be wider, must stretch to the farthest point of both horizons even though it’s all made of the smallest things possible; all small things add up to something big. I want the big.


One Response to “death of small things”

  1. qwandor Says:

    Hah, you are not the only one lacking in life goals. I am still not sure what I am doing with my life either, and coming over here only confused things further. Though, I have learnt a few things along the way, perhaps grown a little. So perhaps travel is a worthwhile exercise?

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