Nothing ever happens

 

Since the start of the Ukraine war, ‘nothing ever happens’ has been a popular refrain used in memes online in a post-ironic reference to the complete failure of the ‘end of history’ theory. Fukuyama, of course, has long admitted a mistake on that front. ‘Nothing ever happens’ does seem to be the defining feature of my day-to-day. A quarter century of letting life just happen to me has brought me to a not disagreeable condition. A general feeling of unfulfillment, not uncommon amongst my generation, is little to complain about.

Every day feels like a slog, but we zoomed past the new year into March in the blink of an eye. Everything is fleeting. I choose deliberate obfuscation in my articulation frustration. Everything is in the undercurrent; at best, it invites questions. I am unconvinced this isn’t bad writing, just as well then that no one actually reads it.

I used to hate that quote ‘hell is other people’. I still hate it, but only because I think it is incomplete. Heaven is also other people. Everything is other people. Like the question about a tree falling in a forest without anyone to observe, I think there is little to be said for a life lived without other people. That is not to say that life is about performance. Perhaps it is performance, but it about more. Even as I do not seek an audience, I do take considerable care to chronicle. It is often in ways easily accessible for anyone who tries. Maybe it betrays the failings of deeply repressed urges of actually wanting to centre the self. It would not be without merit to suggest every post here is a step in that direction, with a deliberately easy way to get here hidden in plain sight.

Part of feeling unrealized as a person is thinking there is more to personhood than what you are voluntarily or involuntarily limiting yourself to. The bottlenecks are institutional; they are material. I am not sure what a rational reaction would be. It is almost in my interest to hurry the Sun up and down every day, and to ensure that nothing ever happens.

Valour

 

There is a sense of always running away. I think it is borne out of cowardice. I’m not sure where it comes from, but I’ve always known myself to be a coward. It’s not innate, of course. Nothing is innate. But it is ingrained. Choosing the path of least resistance is all I’ve been good for. It is almost an abuse of privilege to instrumentalize it almost exclusively in carving exits. A rare avenue where spending does not seem inherently excessive. Every room has a backdoor and I can avoid calling attention to myself.

This obsession with not calling attention to myself leads to me creating narratives. I am the narrator, ‘observing’ the human condition. It is my lot to take account, making sure not to influence the story. Despite what I say I want, this sounds not unlike a most degenerate version of being the protagonist. No one is in control of a story like the narrator. Invisibility only enhances their agency. The story does not take shape but for their will. For a story as creation, the narrator’s role is not unlike the creator’s. This characterization of my role here calls for self-criticism. Positioning myself as non-participating other – which I also used to try by being the banker in Monopoly – does not actually remove roles or responsibilities inherent to participation.

This is also just cope. What is a narrator without an audience? Was a story ever written that was not shared? What good is this refusal of reckoning when I am not unconvinced there might be a Day of Reckoning? A dear friend asked recently why we still persisted with fasting. I replied, half-jokingly, ‘so Eid will not be stolen valour’. Takbir?