I always felt like a character in a Murakami novel. Adrift. Living in alternating planes of reality. On one plane I am a struggling passive-aggressive conformist, and on the other a struggling pseudo-intellectual elitist. Sticking out like a sore thumb but too forgettable to matter anyways. Perfectly makes sense. But Murakami never makes sense. Which is a whole contradiction or three-quarters a contradiction. Maybe a paradox. I could never distinguish any of that. All I need is that one disappearing act. Maybe I have that. The self. I have lost sight of the self. What do I want to be? Who do I want to be? A few leap years ago I had that vision of who I want to be. A man who would conquer the world. A game changer. Then the world happened. Reality bit me in the arse. Life has become a rerun of the plot of ON SEEING THE 100% PERFECT GIRL ONE BEAUTIFUL APRIL MORNING. Only more miserable in every iteration. Tough luck. Boo hoo. Ground Hog day is such a paradise. Or hell. Either way I'm screwed if this continues. Every waking moment is a struggle of holding back and fighting all out.
Maybe it's all in my head.
Maybe I'll read Palahniuk instead.
No comments:
Post a Comment