Nope. No title today.

Aahhhh, remember the good old days, when this blog was young and carefree, writing about shitty board games one day, and half-finished religious journeys the next? When I could post what I liked, feeling no pressure either internal or external. When I stood tall and proud in my tiny tiny tiny tiny corner of the internet, a king among mere data dust motes.


Yeah neither to do I. It’s never happened. I’ve always felt like a nervous wreck, piloting myself through life like a drunk sheep who’s been strapped into a car seat. And the worst part is I’m not even drunk very often. Although I can at least drive. (Just don’t have a car).

Distance is rapidly becoming one of the most useful tools I have at my disposal. While I will inevitably think of whatever I’m doing right now as a pile of horse shit tied together with rubber bands, after a few days/weeks/months/years (insert as appropriate) I now actually get to a point where I can see things that I have previously done as having worth. My internal standards are still outlandishly high, and I will still very much focus on the things I do (or percieve myself to do) wrong. But I can acknowledge that there is worth present. A comparatively rare phenomenon for me.

(As a side note, it’s thought processes like this which comfortingly convince me that I’m not still secretly suicidal (and yes, that is a fear that I repeatedly have). Because the idea of distance being a positive is something I would not have comprehended just a year or so ago.)

((That said, my head feels like it would be a strange palace for someone else to be in. Like Escher drawn by Charles-August Mengin in his Sappho days, while suffering from incipient blackouts. But even so. There is the potential for optimism. (The fact that it’s rare, and growing in the mental garden equivalent of a concrete tower block build in soviet era Russia is a sidenote, of course.)))

(((My partner and I have joked before about what would happen if we swapped brains. Which is to say, what if we retained our own personalities, our own memories and so on, but swapped how we percieve the world. (Yes I’m well aware this is not a thing that could ever happen, that’s why you’ll have to use the power of imagination). The thing is, even with my fairly high levels of empathy, I literally cannot concieve of what that would be like. I have no way of routing what that would be like, even in the broadest generalities. It remains a mystery. If you ever feel like twisting your own mind into knots for twenty minutes or so, I highly recommend trying to imagine a similar thing, but with someone you know.)))

…where the fuck was I? Oh yes, distance. As an experience I think it’s something worth actively fostering, this slight seperation of ‘this is how it feels to do something’ and ‘this is how it feels to view the thing I did’. They are always going to be related, but it strikes me as particularly valuable for a person who is essentially unable to get to the point of ‘this is how if feels to do something’, by virtue of simply never doing it.

And yes, dear potential audience, I’m aware that this post may come across as egotistical, or convoluted, or cyclical, or complete batty banana bread. And that’s…kind of the point.

I want this blog to have worth; I want it to meet my outlandishly high standards. But the entire point of starting this blog was to encourage myself to write, and somewhere along the way the weight of my own expectations and the passive expectations of having a blog-of-quality have simply caused me to…stop writing. Pretty much in totality. Don’t get me wrong, writing has always been a horrible, self-flagellating, miserable, teeth-gritting-fuck-you kind of experience for me (which is not to say I don’t like doing it/having done it), but there is a difference between that, and doing nothing. So I am actively trying to return to my less considered, whimsical, fuck you kind of writing, in the hope that it will foster the ability to do some actual serious writing in future.

(I’m not sure how I’ll seperate the two if/when that happens, and yes, I still feel bad that my friend bought me a domain name last christmas and I simply haven’t had the grit to use it yet.)

All in all, fuck Nigel Farage, Donald Trump, and most of the fucking planet.

And cheers to Contrapoint.


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