Things I hate:
Another part of me leans in a different direction. In a “fuck it, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to do whenever the fuck I want to do it” kind of direction. It seems, though, like human nature, or some kind of fucky, unseeable force, won’t let me fully embrace such a worldview. A balance seems in order. I’m not good at balancing. I have friends who are. I have friends who seem able to walk along near-tightropes with confidence. They might be struggling more than I can tell, but...I can’t tell.
So, you want to bring down a corporation or two, but you don’t want to leave the coffee shop. You’re privileged as fuck. You like smoking weed and hanging out with your friends, and reading and watching movies with a girl, and you don’t really like activism. I mean, you like it as a concept, you support it, but you don’t feel like getting up to go do it. That’s fucked up, probably. It’s the least you could do. Really, sit on the couch all you want, play video games and smoke and drink and be merry, and go to a rally now and then.
Alright, maybe that’s not enough, either. You could make something. Music, or games, or you could write. Yeah, write! There you go. All it takes is the computer that’s conveniently sitting right in front of you on this table in this coffee shop. And maybe it’ll actually make a difference. Maybe it’ll wake somebody up! Probably not, but maybe. Hell, at least you gave it a shot.
Okay, this actually feels good, though. And we’re back to that zen, pseudo-spiritual “balance” idea. Feeling good is good. It may not be enough in the long term, but it does feel good right now. Luckily, you have another option, because you found a hole, err, more like a tunnel, a convenient, dark, black tunnel, and it leads right into the heart of some evil corporation, and you can take out the CEO and burn it all down and give the money to poor people.
Perfect. Slacktivism, maybe, but who can tell the difference if you’re ending an evil empire? No one, probably, so this should be good enough.
I’m rambling. There’s no coherence here, and there needs to be some semblance of coherence. You need to understand. Sorry, I didn’t mean that in the pejorative sense. I mean, you need to be able to understand, and I’m not doing a very good job of allowing for that. I’ll try to do better. Let me start somewhere more digestible.
ALONG CAME A LITTLE BLACK HOLE
Yeah, more of a tunnel. But a tunnel sounds big and grand and dangerous, and about to cave-in. A tunnel seems to imply adventure, exploration, the possibility of doom at the hands of a million pounds of suffocating stone. There was none of that. This was a hole, just a straight-shot, black hole. What the fuck, right? And I didn’t even have to go far to find it. It was right out back, behind the coffee shop.
It was a normal day. Wow, I fucking hate myself for writing that sentence. I apologize on my own behalf for making you read that sentence. Let’s try again.
It wasn’t particularly rainy or sunny or memorable really in any way on that Tuesday, and there wasn’t anything anything to be super excited about, either. Some shit to do, some places to be, nothing on the immediate to-do list. So I drank a latte and read about some-shit-or-other and then stalled. The sky is pretty pretty, even on what might usually be considered an ugly day. It isn’t half bad to stare at, if you’ve got the time. Seriously, I recommend it. Solid experience.
It is much easier to start something than it is to finish it. That is an obvious thing. So, in order for something to be finish-able, really all that’s required is that it is easy to finish. Most things are not, as we have just established. But, lo and behold, the hole was! It was a straight-shot, smooth-walled, no uphill battles, no sudden dips or drops, just a nice, pleasant stroll, palatable probably to anyone willing to stroll with some tunes in ear. Dark, sure, but comfortably high-ceilinged, and mercifully lacking in turns. And it smelled good, even. Like, the best smell in the world. Fresh rain. Too good to be true, but there it was, right out back.
At first, I didn’t go far in, because I really did think it was too good to be true. It was behind a dumpster, a smelly dumpster, and it was unassuming because, at first glance, you might think it to just be a big, dark spot of pitch-black graffiti paint. The garbage man must have thought that. Or maybe he’d taken a stroll or two inside, and then trotted back out again to resume his route. It’s probably hard being a garbage man. It’s probably stressful. A constant time-crunch to collect people’s shit. At least you get to be outside.
Regardless, there was no sign that anyone else had given this hole more than a passing thought. So, I figured, walking into it would probably make me meaningful. An explorer of the Earth’s darkest, unseen frontiers, its Twilight Zone-esque secrets, its inexplicable, uncanny valleys. I couldn’t help a pleased little smirk from creeping onto my face as I thought all of this, and thought how easy the hole would be to journey into. Pretty fucking easy. Bravery points for free. Why the hell not, I had an hour to spare.
I walked inside, and it smelled like it smelled, and it looked like nothing, like total blackness, like my eyes were closed, but it was echoey and I figured it must lead somewhere. And if not, it was a total straight-shot. Simple enough to find my way out the same way I’d come.
Doing things like this make me feel purposeful. I am not wasting time, because I am using it for this noble task. I have a problem with feeling like I’m wasting time. I waste time worrying that I’m wasting time, which I think is the only true way to waste time, aside from maybe using heroin, but even that probably has its merits. Worrying about wasting time doesn’t even feel good. Walking down a pleasant-smelling tunnel, without fear of getting lost, without anxiety about sitting still, without concern about being adventure-averse, was fucking perfect.
Is there any value in this? Am I really doing anyone else any good? I could not help but think these things as the blackness enclosed around me. It ceased feeling good. It became suffocating, just like the coffee shop. Another place to reflect on my complacency. This isn’t helping anybody, said that little voice inside my head. It’s helping you, said the other one. You’re content. The other voice said that isn’t enough.
There was no conclusion.
When I exited the tunnel it was evening. It smelled like the residue of a cafeteria dinner. The sky was the same but darker, and the day had gone. I’d tried something new. I’d walked a while into the hole, hoping to find something, but it was just blackness, at least as far as I’d walked. I’d have to walk even further to find anything meaningful, I thought, if anything meaningful at all lay in those crushingly dark depths. My enjoyment had fluctuated while I had walked, with moments of hope and contentedness punctuated by a question: what was I doing? It was during one of those moments of uncertainty that I had turned around and headed back towards the entrance, unsure as to whether an exit lay ahead, or just more blackness.
The experience wasn’t horrible or anything. I felt at least like I’d given it a shot. I had tried to break through to the other side, rather than just wondering what that black spot on the wall was. I’d fall asleep fine. I’d read a bit and then I’d fall asleep fine. Maybe that’s the problem, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t fall asleep fine. Should I be content with this? With trying vainly to emerge on the other side of the hole? I hadn’t really succeeded in doing anything, after all. I resolved to try again tomorrow. That, I figured, warranted some sleep tonight.
- Corporations, but not enough to do anything about them.
- Aimlessness, but not enough to do anything about it.
Another part of me leans in a different direction. In a “fuck it, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to do whenever the fuck I want to do it” kind of direction. It seems, though, like human nature, or some kind of fucky, unseeable force, won’t let me fully embrace such a worldview. A balance seems in order. I’m not good at balancing. I have friends who are. I have friends who seem able to walk along near-tightropes with confidence. They might be struggling more than I can tell, but...I can’t tell.
So, you want to bring down a corporation or two, but you don’t want to leave the coffee shop. You’re privileged as fuck. You like smoking weed and hanging out with your friends, and reading and watching movies with a girl, and you don’t really like activism. I mean, you like it as a concept, you support it, but you don’t feel like getting up to go do it. That’s fucked up, probably. It’s the least you could do. Really, sit on the couch all you want, play video games and smoke and drink and be merry, and go to a rally now and then.
Alright, maybe that’s not enough, either. You could make something. Music, or games, or you could write. Yeah, write! There you go. All it takes is the computer that’s conveniently sitting right in front of you on this table in this coffee shop. And maybe it’ll actually make a difference. Maybe it’ll wake somebody up! Probably not, but maybe. Hell, at least you gave it a shot.
Okay, this actually feels good, though. And we’re back to that zen, pseudo-spiritual “balance” idea. Feeling good is good. It may not be enough in the long term, but it does feel good right now. Luckily, you have another option, because you found a hole, err, more like a tunnel, a convenient, dark, black tunnel, and it leads right into the heart of some evil corporation, and you can take out the CEO and burn it all down and give the money to poor people.
Perfect. Slacktivism, maybe, but who can tell the difference if you’re ending an evil empire? No one, probably, so this should be good enough.
I’m rambling. There’s no coherence here, and there needs to be some semblance of coherence. You need to understand. Sorry, I didn’t mean that in the pejorative sense. I mean, you need to be able to understand, and I’m not doing a very good job of allowing for that. I’ll try to do better. Let me start somewhere more digestible.
ALONG CAME A LITTLE BLACK HOLE
Yeah, more of a tunnel. But a tunnel sounds big and grand and dangerous, and about to cave-in. A tunnel seems to imply adventure, exploration, the possibility of doom at the hands of a million pounds of suffocating stone. There was none of that. This was a hole, just a straight-shot, black hole. What the fuck, right? And I didn’t even have to go far to find it. It was right out back, behind the coffee shop.
It was a normal day. Wow, I fucking hate myself for writing that sentence. I apologize on my own behalf for making you read that sentence. Let’s try again.
It wasn’t particularly rainy or sunny or memorable really in any way on that Tuesday, and there wasn’t anything anything to be super excited about, either. Some shit to do, some places to be, nothing on the immediate to-do list. So I drank a latte and read about some-shit-or-other and then stalled. The sky is pretty pretty, even on what might usually be considered an ugly day. It isn’t half bad to stare at, if you’ve got the time. Seriously, I recommend it. Solid experience.
It is much easier to start something than it is to finish it. That is an obvious thing. So, in order for something to be finish-able, really all that’s required is that it is easy to finish. Most things are not, as we have just established. But, lo and behold, the hole was! It was a straight-shot, smooth-walled, no uphill battles, no sudden dips or drops, just a nice, pleasant stroll, palatable probably to anyone willing to stroll with some tunes in ear. Dark, sure, but comfortably high-ceilinged, and mercifully lacking in turns. And it smelled good, even. Like, the best smell in the world. Fresh rain. Too good to be true, but there it was, right out back.
At first, I didn’t go far in, because I really did think it was too good to be true. It was behind a dumpster, a smelly dumpster, and it was unassuming because, at first glance, you might think it to just be a big, dark spot of pitch-black graffiti paint. The garbage man must have thought that. Or maybe he’d taken a stroll or two inside, and then trotted back out again to resume his route. It’s probably hard being a garbage man. It’s probably stressful. A constant time-crunch to collect people’s shit. At least you get to be outside.
Regardless, there was no sign that anyone else had given this hole more than a passing thought. So, I figured, walking into it would probably make me meaningful. An explorer of the Earth’s darkest, unseen frontiers, its Twilight Zone-esque secrets, its inexplicable, uncanny valleys. I couldn’t help a pleased little smirk from creeping onto my face as I thought all of this, and thought how easy the hole would be to journey into. Pretty fucking easy. Bravery points for free. Why the hell not, I had an hour to spare.
I walked inside, and it smelled like it smelled, and it looked like nothing, like total blackness, like my eyes were closed, but it was echoey and I figured it must lead somewhere. And if not, it was a total straight-shot. Simple enough to find my way out the same way I’d come.
Doing things like this make me feel purposeful. I am not wasting time, because I am using it for this noble task. I have a problem with feeling like I’m wasting time. I waste time worrying that I’m wasting time, which I think is the only true way to waste time, aside from maybe using heroin, but even that probably has its merits. Worrying about wasting time doesn’t even feel good. Walking down a pleasant-smelling tunnel, without fear of getting lost, without anxiety about sitting still, without concern about being adventure-averse, was fucking perfect.
Is there any value in this? Am I really doing anyone else any good? I could not help but think these things as the blackness enclosed around me. It ceased feeling good. It became suffocating, just like the coffee shop. Another place to reflect on my complacency. This isn’t helping anybody, said that little voice inside my head. It’s helping you, said the other one. You’re content. The other voice said that isn’t enough.
There was no conclusion.
When I exited the tunnel it was evening. It smelled like the residue of a cafeteria dinner. The sky was the same but darker, and the day had gone. I’d tried something new. I’d walked a while into the hole, hoping to find something, but it was just blackness, at least as far as I’d walked. I’d have to walk even further to find anything meaningful, I thought, if anything meaningful at all lay in those crushingly dark depths. My enjoyment had fluctuated while I had walked, with moments of hope and contentedness punctuated by a question: what was I doing? It was during one of those moments of uncertainty that I had turned around and headed back towards the entrance, unsure as to whether an exit lay ahead, or just more blackness.
The experience wasn’t horrible or anything. I felt at least like I’d given it a shot. I had tried to break through to the other side, rather than just wondering what that black spot on the wall was. I’d fall asleep fine. I’d read a bit and then I’d fall asleep fine. Maybe that’s the problem, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t fall asleep fine. Should I be content with this? With trying vainly to emerge on the other side of the hole? I hadn’t really succeeded in doing anything, after all. I resolved to try again tomorrow. That, I figured, warranted some sleep tonight.
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