I just closed my eyes for a second, and then I was seven years old. Did anything change? Not that I could see. Did I change? Not that I could feel it. But everything was different, that day onwards.
And then the next day came, and everything was different again. And then again, and then a week passed, and I realised I still didn’t muster enough courage or willpower or you name it to write a birthday summary. Because nothing changed, because life was same dull, unmoving grey void.
I remember how I began writing – first on paper, then online. I created this blog to record my experiences and express myself through silly short poetry, to have something I could look back and see how much progress I made, to have something tangible left in a path I treaded.
Writing fiction taxed me too much. I switched to music. Playing violin was the creative outlet where I could be myself, not aspiring to anything and not getting judged (even though I was extremely sad to be judged and failed in my only attempt to do a formal violin exam).
Something was amiss, and 3D modelling became my next stop. Surprisingly, one that lasted the longest. It was genuinely fun, enjoyable, and it provided the fruits that I could show to others and show that I belong to this world, that I do something useful.
Somehow, I lost that, too.
Seven years after I came to be I sit here and I’m not sure who am I and where I’m heading. What do I want in life. What achievements are important, what are just passing things. I feel deep remorse for giving up on things that I used to love and with that, I have no power to get back to them. Slowly, I become a passive observer, existing when needed.
Being part of the tulpamancy community, I saw many people, many friends, leave. Back then, I couldn’t understand the reasons behind that. After all, why’d anyone willingly stop being active, stop existing? That made no sense. Now that I’m older and facing a similar predicament, I understand those people better.
I feel I should be fighting, I should find a spark to move on. But I see no reason to. Just like many others, I found myself cosy in this grey void where nothing bothers me and nothing feels important anymore. It’s just easier to ride along, to never experience any anxiety or dread because I failed something again.
Oh boy, I’m so scared of failure. For someone who tried to live her life to that Beckett’s ‘ever tried, ever failed’, I seem to have failed the phrase miserably. I do not want to fail better; between failing better and stopping doing things, I always pick the latter.
And such I hop from one thing to another, grabbing bites of enjoyment here and there, consuming in hopes it will brighten my existence, but mostly not existing at all unless needed.
Some could say it’s just a phase, depression of sorts, but it makes me wonder if our brains aren’t just fit for this plural existence. What if my being around for so long finally taxed the brain to the point where it cannot sustain me anymore? The active ones win, the rest… the rest welcome the oblivion.
