Some Days

At some point after every birthday I feel like I’m at the “outro” of my life. I can’t see beyond my own nose and I can’t picture myself waking up the next day. And I constantly feel like I am on the verge of death. And even now I can’t see myself ageing and growing old and settling down and having kids or not settling down and not having kids in some distant city in some distant country, maybe with a bicycle or maybe not, and perhaps a dog fits into the picture.

And every now and then I feel anxious about everything and grow uncomfortable and start walking and can’t stop until I lose track of my thoughts and look for the reason that prompted me to start in the first place, and come to the realisation that there is no reason, at which point I will stop on my tracks, turn back and go home. Then I’ll sit on the couch and forget about the whole thing and consume television programmes or maybe Internet videos.

Also every now and then I feel out of place and unhappy and just really fucking uncomfortable with everything and everyone in my life. “Where have all the good, interesting people gone?” And I will turn around and look for someone to console me and talk to me, but I’ll find there is no one—not even my friends. And I will begin asking myself where I would like to be if it is not here but it will be pointless because the answer invariably is “nowhere”. I don’t want to be anywhere. I don’t want to be. I don’t wanna die; I just don’t want to be.

Some days I feel like it is not me who is living my life but rather some impostor who’s acting out for the entertainment and amusement of some harsh spectator who expects everything to be really fucking interesting. And that spectator will be me. But I am also the actor. But I am also the spectator. And I observe my life with a great deal of attention and care and demand more of the actor whenever I feel he isn’t performing well. “No, no, no! When you talk to her there has to be more drama! What are you doing, you idiot? You have to act cool for this scene!”

But some other days it will hit me that I am actually me and that it is I who is living my life. And that I own this I character and that I should internalise his feelings and emotions and thoughts and intentions. And it will hit me in the most absurd way possible, like for example when I am walking down the stairs of my building and I walk into one of my neighbours and he stops and says “Good morning! Lovely day, isn’t it?” and I will reply with what starts as a fake smile, “Yes indeed!” but then realise that the smile on my face has suddenly become mine and that it is I who is producing it and that I own the smile and that I own this face and that I own these feelings. Did I really intend to answer so cheerfully? Am I really this full of joy? Well, who the fuck knows, but I certainly own that feeling now! And also now I, unfortunately, have to play along with it.

Well, fuck.