Do you ever get the feeling that your life is quickly approaching a euphemistic fork in your road? Like there’s a turning point forming around the corner, and your life’s mere moments from being turned upside down, and inside out?
Well, I’ve got that feeling now, and I don’t quite know what to make of it.
There is probably a cornucopia of reasons contributing to why I feel this way. For instance…
I just got back from New Zealand, and am temporarily living with my parents until I find an apartment.
- …I’ve just found a new apartment, in a new location, and am moving into it this weekend.
- After seven drafts, I’m finally about to (I’m so fucking close) start looking for a literary agent to whore out my book to publishers.
- I’m looking for a job. I haven’t worked in years. It’s scary. The world, that is.
- I graduated six months ago.
- Time – the fucker – isn’t waiting for me to get my shit together.
- … I’ve started looking at time as a linear concept, and it’s driving me bonkers.
Oh, and yeah, I s’pose I’ve had way too many coffees.
Having said this though, this feeling isn’t new to me. Every year or three, I start swimming in this unidentifiable feeling of looming change.
Here, in this rather melancholic mood, the future presents itself to my mind as a sort of scattered puzzle, begging for me to piece it together. Demanding that I find a solution, now, for a problem that can only present itself, in the morrow.
Deep down though, in the cockles of my heart’s heart, I know that life is there to be lived, day-by-day, moment-by-moment. I know that excessively thinking about the future is pointless. I know that it leads nowhere and can only bring stress.
And yet, despite this unconscious, but very conscious comprehension, I still can’t help it. My brain’s taking me to realities that haven’t, and probably will never, manifest. It’s concocting so many fictitious scenarios, drilling holes of unreality through every inch of my hyperbolic flesh, that I just can’t keep up. And it’s weighing me down. My physical person, that is. To the point where I can barely hold my attention on any one thing for longer than a few minutes.
Which ain’t conducive for living a fruitful life.
We’ve got this tendency – we, the modern ones – to live life where life is not. We live in a world of abstraction, a world of concepts. A world dictated by and confined to the realm of our imaginations. A world of unreality in which we worry, we fret, we stress, we build, we destroy – all of these purely fantastical hypotheticals that have little to no bearing on life as it stands.
It marks both and at once the brilliance, and the insanity, of our human kind.
I’ve an inkling that animals and nature know – as in, truly know – this point better than we do: The point that there is only one reality. A reality that we each experience differently through our unique filters. A reality that we chop and carve and manipulate through our own cognisance. The point that reality, that which we shape, the contents comprising our consciousness – collectively and individually – is, ultimately, taken from the same life-platter.
This fork in the road, this change that I smell lingering around the corner, well, that’s just life. Being life. Doing what it does. Turning over. Changing. Flipping and flopping. Morphing, transforming, flowing – floating along a stream of constant and continuous flux.
The only way that I feel I can contain and nurture what’s left of my sanity, is by jumping into this river of life, and splashing around as if its nature were infinite.
Life is where shit’s at. If you’re going to visit your imagination, it’s key to keep in mind that your imagination, as splendid as it may be, can only mimic reality. Our mind’s only shadow reality. Our brain’s can only reflect life.
How to make this distinction - Is this the real life – Is this just fantasy? - well, that’s the tricky part, ain’t it?
I guess alls you can do is… carry on… carry on.