ennui

  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 ...

  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 creat...