All existential bullshit about the transience of life aside, I seriously envy people who know what they want to do with their lives. At least that’d make things a little easier. Sometimes I think my major is based on such a complacent bourgeois construct that I wonder what the point of it is at all. Yeah, designing pretty things is great, but um, a lot of people just want to put food on the table—does it really matter to them if that food’s packaged in an aesthetically attractive way. It’s a little amazing that today, in a meeting, I listened to them talk about whether a certain brand mascot should have dimples or a shadow under its nose for thirty minutes. I mean, I understand that nuance is important in the craft, but god, I would go insane if I had to do this type of commercial branding my whole life—I couldn’t care less if kids like this mascot better with a fucking shadow under its nose or without.
But at the same time, I keep imagining myself in other professions and other lifestyles, and I can’t see myself doing those things for my entire life either. I can more easily imagine other people being happy and successful, settling down in suburbia and becoming ordinary families. I look into my own future and it’s a confusing mess of things I might want to do jumbled up with things I should probably do. If I could just know for sure that such-and-such is what I want to do for the rest of my life, if I could only feel such a passion for something, instead of stumbling through everything and wishing the end of the day would come faster.
I used to think, not that long ago, that I’d be happy just collecting dust in a tiny corner of the world reading and writing and drawing, doing mundane things until I die, but now I want to go everywhere and meet everyone and find some sort of meaning, or something. I just want to do honest work and be a good person.
Wow, this is amazing. It’s really interesting to see the passage of time, but also it’s quite surprising that she’d let her father document her in such depth. I mean, a lot of teenagers can’t even stand to be in the same room as their parents for more than a few minutes. Anyway, I love this; it’s a little scary that 32 years can be condensed into a few snapshots, but the pictures are really lovely.
The more I try to wrap my head around it, the more I’m scared by how absolutely pointless everything seems. How can anything in life be worth a thing if everything is going to be destroyed one day? I go through the motions every day, and yes, it’s true that I’m not unhappy, but I guess sometimes it seems to me that the only force propelling me through existence is fear. I’m terrified of failure, of fucking up irreparably, of the moment everything winks out of existence and all the things I cared about as a living person will cease to mean anything at all. But it’s insanity to think this way, which I understand intellectually, but even so, I can’t help myself; because oh god, all these thoughts are disappearing even as they rise to the surface. I can’t even keep the words I say to myself in secret; I can’t keep any of this at all from dying and dying and dying.
Sometimes I really don’t know what to put in this blog. So I just write all this heavy shit that makes me sound unstable and depressed…well, that’s okay. It’s whatever.
When I was in California, my friend tried to tell my fortune using some tarot cards. She told me that there was going to be trouble ahead, but then I’d be happy, but then I’d be ultimately unhappy again. I was like, fuck that noise, what the hell do I need some tarot cards to tell me basically exactly what life is? While I was there, I kept trying to imagine myself living forever in a place like that, next to the ocean with exuberant vegetation all over the place. Is that a sign of getting older—wanting to find a place to settle down and build a nest? The thing is, I couldn’t really picture myself there, as beautiful as it was. The thing is, I think I just feel alien anywhere I go; like this is just another pit stop, this is just another place to take shitty pictures of stuff you did and people you met but will forget about in a month.
I like talking to people about how fucking strange life is. It makes me feel less insane. We were on the night ferry coming back from the city and she told me how weird it feels to know that she’ll never see these people again after she’s done working there. You get what you can out of a place, and then maybe you move on, things run their course. It’s comforting to know that no one else knows what the fuck they’re doing either. I guess eventually maybe people figure it out. It’s never enough though. I mean, even while I was watching the people on the beach, the children darting to and from the rising tide, the surfers rolling through the water next to each other, I just felt this vague fear in the back of my mind, of: one day all of this will end. Nothing means anything and I’ll never be here again. It’s a bit distressing.
Sometimes I just want to sleep for a million years, and wake up when everything I’ve ever known and cared about has died and been reborn. Then I’ll wander among the ruins until I disappear or turn to stone, and no one will ever give a fuck, thank god.
I have to say—being alive means you’re always looking for a way to be whole; being human precludes any chance of ever having the satisfaction of wanting nothing.