I’ve been thinking. I need to do something about my life. It’s in a state of unacceptableness. That’s the worst state. I’m not joking. And I know this, because my mind is in such an unprecedented, acceptable state!
What am I doing, writing yet one more post on some darn moronic Steiner waldorf education topic? Really, what? You see, I’m at least considerate enough not to say that in some important thread, so that it not be ruined, but can be used productively.
But, actually, the question is relevant. Why do I do this? It’s not very likely to make any difference to me now, or is it? Waldorf education is so much a thing of the past, and if parents today want to throw their kids into that bottomless pit, as far as I’m concerned they’re welcome to go ahead. What do I care? I don’t.
It’s an honest question — how much of my life am I wasting? Not that I know what I’d be doing. After all, the blog (for example) is lovely (and so is the ethereal ice-cream and champagne, not to speak of the chandeliers), but it seems like it’s too much of a replacement for something else, that thing called real life, that thing other people have (I’ve heard). The writing is my parallel reality, but parallel to what? So, there in plain view it is. Failure. Because that’s what it is, right?
I guess the real question is why I had to throw myself into that bottomless pit (again, as an adult) to find out what things were about (finding that the pit was not, in fact, bottomless) and neglect (somewhat) to lead a life at the same time and thus creating for myself another pit that may very well be bottomless or at least impossible to get out of. Apparently neglecting life. That thing that happens to other people because they make it happen. Or perhaps it is their destiny, their karma, to be immersed in it. Life.
Frankly, I never knew how to. As a child I saw other children play, but I seem to be born the spectator, not the participant. Those are two different things. Two very different roles in life. And no matter what you want to be, you get stuck in one category. Some people are spectators; they keep looking at things, but keep their hands and their heads, their minds, away from humdrum reality or, for that matter, exciting reality. They watch, but don’t take part. They keep themselves confined to fantasy land. But the desire to be real keeps pressing on.
Ah, the agony. I feel suitably pessimistic, melodramatic and alien. I should go read some Pessoa. It’s not so bad. It never was. Perhaps I realize the stupidity and futility of my project (or projects) because I see I could have done better. Avoided regrets (of course, regret might be good, and am I really regretting anything?). And don’t tell me that what I’ve done and written was helpful or useful or whatever — I don’t give a damn. I did it for egoistic reasons. I just think that, perhaps, I should have been even more of an egoist — understanding myself better and predicting what I was going to want and need later. Not waking up at this old (oh, yes, old) age, thinking what the heck. But then again, I never really understood myself. Or mr Dog. Or the world.