The summer seems to be such a ethereal time for me, each day just happens and washes over like a passing breeze with little consequence. Each action seems futile, each step forward is a step back and for all of my musings and ramblings of the past I find myself in a dream-like haze of an existence.
Last month, for my posting was a write-off and this month of August looks like to be too with trips and hazy twilights. It’s almost as if this is the feeling of retirement, like some surrender to the flow of things entirely passive and accepting of some core concepts: aloneness, oneness, tiredness. What am I waiting for? In myself, in my soul I feel a waiting for something, some kind of action or call to action from the universe that perhaps will never come. Is this depression returning with a vengeance or is it simply active passivism? As I sit here in this study and melt away in the heat unbecoming for England, I wonder if this is it. If this is the great peace I’ve been looking for: boredom. I’m not seeking adventure or seeking some great ambition yet it feels that purpose and companionship in purpose seem to be great ambition and adventure.
A tarot reader would perhaps describe this apathia as my cup being empty and the advice they could give me is that the only person who is able to refill this cup is me. Yet with what? The answer: purpose. Where does one find purpose? Within. Where within? When I close my eyes there is vastness yet the observer of this vastness is silent and without answers. I turn to Universe, with my meditations being shallow and cut-off of late yet Universe is silent. Am I being tested? Is this a test of philosophy to see how alone I need to feel, how apathetic I need to feel before I return to my old habits of self-destruction of both body and soul?
To add to my concerns: I can’t sleep.
I’m awake at night persevering with hypnosis videos and reiki and ASMR yet nothing is helping me. Instead I stare into space and think of which nation I will play as tomorrow in my new obsession: Crusader Kings III. The mistakes of my past catch-up to me in those moments. Not from looking back, trapped in regret, but rather from not having anyone there to talk to. It’s funny, when alone with your thoughts it comes back to that. It’s a self-imposed solitary confinement, ending up being surrounded by those that you ultimately can’t connect with or are exclusively online – relationships dictated by internet connection and sheer timing. Even those who are still with me have moved on. Old faithfuls, no longer faithful. New connections futile and unwelcome. Is it time to accept the solace? Take heart in its acceptance? How many other lineages have ended like mine will: only child, childless and forgotten. Too many to count, so in the end, what’s the worry since it seems so natural. Even the grand dynasties have long since been forgotten with the descendants of Genghis Khan referring to their heritage as a fun party fact, one of millions.
So I lay awake, the fan on full blast, staring over at my collection of books. Asking each: what would you do? They would suggest that I do something productive with my time yet I’m in need of someone to tell me what that looks like. What is productive? What is helpful? The only thing that seems to keep me on the Path of rationality is the knowing of the alternative chaos.
The stoics talk about the smoky room and if the room becomes too smoky, to exit it. Is that what I’m waiting for? The smoke to fill my room to give me a reason to leave, waiting around just in case I’m incensed to stay? It’s not even a particularly major worry or concern – death, that is. It has definition and clear answers. What does limbo have to offer? This apathia and purgatory of circumstances? Neither here nor there in body, soul or mind. Yet perhaps this is the depression talking and I should just get on with it like Mark Corrigan from Peep Show and start chain cooking roast dinners to keep myself busy.
Not all glum, parsnips are my favourite.