My every day experiences feel extremely singular, as if I am living one day at a time and with sleep I forget who I am or what I am doing here, and upon waking again I just complete the next day, without much thought about yesterday. Despite their singularity, my experiences don’t feel particularly unique. It reminds me of seeing the sky here every day: it’s just a particular sequence going through every shades of grey, singular in its expression now but not very unique in the scope of things.
I feel like we all just miss feeling a little bit special. When I was in Oxford, every night felt electric with new faces, radical thoughts, unique experiences, singular tones and smells of bodies, the night turning into day and back in one fluid motion that it all was a one year long experience. I remember the nights and the clubs and the philosophy and port and whatever the pharma kids had, cut with pure caffeine. I remember the way we all felt alive, tied to a moment, a present so strong that we believed we would live like this forever.
And then we all moved on, into the world, into careers and conversations that lost their edge. We were not fighting anymore to be present, we just woke up naturally and went about our days, in and out of consciousness. Are we all adults now that we feel permanently drugged, walking through each day with a layer of protective blasé indifference? The days are defined now, with each morning and evening repeating the same routines and hoping that one day they will just stop or be substituted by a past or future that ins’t necessarily ours but in which we belong. We hunt new experiences, always in the new bars or listening to the new harmonies or seeing new countries, but we feel emptier because none of these experiences fulfill the primary role of life – to strengthen our resolve to continue. We do things to do things.
I feel like every day it is harder to tell whether I am a real person. But what else is there?
Music as of late: ZHU – Faded