I find myself completely lost. These days I pace in circles, making special care to step on my toes and criticise every syllable I utter.
Self-reflection can be a bitch it seems. When your life transforms around you in a manner you dare not endeavor to understand I have always been taught that answers lie within soul-searching. But they do not. At only 21 I'm beginning to comprehend the universal answer to almost everything is that sometimes there just aren't any answers. And to fill the void, we have time. Time is what I have.
Tonight I used my time to go door knocking at flats where nobody heard me. After a brief stint of projectile self-destruction earlier in the day - caused by the insane intensity only a few days alone in Karori can deliver - I decided I had spent enough time sitting on my arse, smoking, drinking, reading and chatting. And yet, when I returned to my house I had found no more answers than what I'd left with.
I am a victim of too much time. Musing over the mistakes I'd made in my recent history. Pondering on whether I will ever learn from my bad habits. Inevitably becoming so wound by the lack of results that I lose my head and fall into the cycle all over again.
Once, when I was still living in Lower Hutt, I came across a man lying across the railway lines while walking to work. Never one to abandon a soul in need - at the time - I entered a discourse with the man about not so much his disillusionment with life, but his desire to enter the realm of the lifeless. He told me about a child that never wanted to see him, a wife that was cheating on him... openly, mounting debt and little prospects for the future. I balk at my advice to him now I look back on it, but at the time I remember saying that every moment of life was worth living, and we must train ourselves to see meaning in the moments that are seemingly worth dying over. In other words, enjoy the pain with the happiness.
He was then arrested by some passing police.
Life events and sporadic weeks of nocturnal-ism have resulted in a dark and time-filled winter for me. But in a sick way, it is enjoyable. I can see things happen around me: the Bain trial, the Mt. Albert by-election and poor Melissa Lee's troublesome campaign, flag burning on campus, gigs that whiz by like indy cars, a new breed of musicians taking presence on the indie stage... and despite my interest, opinions, and - at times - intelligence on such matters, I am eternally disconnected from them. Venture too close and it seems I get burned. Estranged from the world of the outspoken I find company and solace in the distance.
Since Easter I have very much enjoyed the company of one or two close friends who I share the nighttime with. Wellington at 2am on a Monday is a different universe. The arching trees of Kelburn stealth Park are both welcoming and menacing, as a derelict Oriental Parade is a chilled acquaintance who grumbles to us the annoyances it endures during the daylight hours. The imagination of the dark is strong enough to make me feel four years old again.
And then... the walk home. Eighty minutes to Karori with Thom Yorke, my thoughts, and my time. Yet, still there is no direction.
I'm a compass with no magnetic pull on a watch with sixteen hours.
Self-reflection can be a bitch it seems. When your life transforms around you in a manner you dare not endeavor to understand I have always been taught that answers lie within soul-searching. But they do not. At only 21 I'm beginning to comprehend the universal answer to almost everything is that sometimes there just aren't any answers. And to fill the void, we have time. Time is what I have.
Tonight I used my time to go door knocking at flats where nobody heard me. After a brief stint of projectile self-destruction earlier in the day - caused by the insane intensity only a few days alone in Karori can deliver - I decided I had spent enough time sitting on my arse, smoking, drinking, reading and chatting. And yet, when I returned to my house I had found no more answers than what I'd left with.
I am a victim of too much time. Musing over the mistakes I'd made in my recent history. Pondering on whether I will ever learn from my bad habits. Inevitably becoming so wound by the lack of results that I lose my head and fall into the cycle all over again.
Once, when I was still living in Lower Hutt, I came across a man lying across the railway lines while walking to work. Never one to abandon a soul in need - at the time - I entered a discourse with the man about not so much his disillusionment with life, but his desire to enter the realm of the lifeless. He told me about a child that never wanted to see him, a wife that was cheating on him... openly, mounting debt and little prospects for the future. I balk at my advice to him now I look back on it, but at the time I remember saying that every moment of life was worth living, and we must train ourselves to see meaning in the moments that are seemingly worth dying over. In other words, enjoy the pain with the happiness.
He was then arrested by some passing police.
Life events and sporadic weeks of nocturnal-ism have resulted in a dark and time-filled winter for me. But in a sick way, it is enjoyable. I can see things happen around me: the Bain trial, the Mt. Albert by-election and poor Melissa Lee's troublesome campaign, flag burning on campus, gigs that whiz by like indy cars, a new breed of musicians taking presence on the indie stage... and despite my interest, opinions, and - at times - intelligence on such matters, I am eternally disconnected from them. Venture too close and it seems I get burned. Estranged from the world of the outspoken I find company and solace in the distance.
Since Easter I have very much enjoyed the company of one or two close friends who I share the nighttime with. Wellington at 2am on a Monday is a different universe. The arching trees of Kelburn stealth Park are both welcoming and menacing, as a derelict Oriental Parade is a chilled acquaintance who grumbles to us the annoyances it endures during the daylight hours. The imagination of the dark is strong enough to make me feel four years old again.
And then... the walk home. Eighty minutes to Karori with Thom Yorke, my thoughts, and my time. Yet, still there is no direction.
I'm a compass with no magnetic pull on a watch with sixteen hours.
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