I’ve been oscillating between tepid self-pity and what I muse might be genuine depression. It’s a limbo-esque purgatory where nothing much happens. I vaguely remember passing the time in an isolationist tendency, drinking more than the daily-recommended dietary intake of caffeine, listening to heavy metal and taking a rather dim view of the happenings in the universe.
A curious effect of this condition is that you hate everything you’ve ever written. You grimace at the drivel you’ve committed to text and you’re largely mortified by the inanity of your thoughts. You feel the overwhelming urge to violently purge everything and start over on the compacted ashes of your previous so-called creativity.
And you would, if only taking a scythe to it didn’t feel like a lot of effort and thus contrary to the sedentary melancholy you’ve carefully crafted for yourself. If you neglect it long enough, maybe, it will just go away.
Only this time, on dragging myself out from underneath my rock, I’ve decided not to raze my blog but rather leave it as marker to the cessation of ego. If such a thing is even possible he wondered out loud. That’s not to say I won’t eventually go back and pull out some of the weeds and perhaps exercise some heavy handed editing, but for now it remains intact.
I suddenly decided I didn’t really like my blog. It felt combative and preachy and often mean-spirited. The ability to bash and critique someone via a pseudonym on the Internet is something I dislike about the medium. It invalidates the processes we as humanity have created for settling disputes. Instead of fisticuffs and duelling pistols at dawn we resort to anonymous largely abbreviated and incomplete sentences propped up with profanity, which are worryingly devoid of grammatical accoutrements, all tightly packed into the comments section below that which offends us. I think we would be more inclined to moderate ourselves if trolling someone included the possibility of a painful, feverish, septic death from a 0.58-inch lead ball wedged inopportunely between our stomach and large intestine.
‘I largely disagree with your point of view, however, I don’t feel strongly enough about it that I am willing to wake up early and before breakfast trudge out to a damp field and risk a vaguely spherical lead ball impacting and shattering my face’
Δ Reproduction of Eugene Onegin’s duel as penned by Alexander Pushkin circa 1878
And so, ashamed by my own hypocrisy I unreservedly apologize for all the mean things I have said and potentially intimated through inference and innuendo.
Having said that, going forward, I will attempt to be, if not nice then at least try and cultivate something resembling Greek apatheia about the things I blog about. Lately I have been trying to infuse this stoic principle into my decision making process as a kind of mental firmware. I’d like to be able to say that it’s been a seamless transition from emotional decision making to the cold hard logic of a Vulcan. Unfortunately I seem to be defective or possibly regressive in so far as I am unable to spread my fingers in the iconic V fashion. I can however roll my tongue, which apparently 30% of the population can’t do. I can only hope that a future evolutionary narrowing favours tongue rollers as opposed to Cos-players.