Familiar

Ah, I suppose I might as well get in a word here. Quite ridiculous how lacking in energy I feel here. Just feel sapped of all vitality, whether it be physically or mentally. So don't expect any brilliance for a couple of weeks, just some meandering musings. Oh, I should note another thing I thought about in a taxi somewhere and would like to eventually get to, transience of affection.

So let's start with the first item on my to blog list, moping. I mope a lot. It's a thing I do. Well, maybe not exactly moping, but certainly I do sink into myself and lapse into physical inactivity for fairly long periods of time, during which I appear to simply be zoning out. I suppose it isn't too inaccurate a description of what I do, for I am not focusing on anything pressing. I can sit happily on my bed, just mulling over the lettering used for the title of a book on its spine, the contrast with that used for the author's name, and the implications of that. I should note what I came up with sometime, it was quite inspired, I think. The point is that I simply do not really enjoy thinking about the important and pressing matters of life. I do not care for anything that demands my attention. I think the most interesting things are those that you choose to be interested in, not the other way around. It's the same reason I dislike salespeople who get all pushy or obsequious. I prefer to browse at my own leisure, without recommendations or opinions, just looking for something to catch my eye. It's a market thing, the right equilibrium will be found, but not when there's interference.

There are times when, I admit, I think I should be doing a little more, but those are the moments when I wonder about my direction in life and all that. Again, the subordinate thoughts only surface and become important when the larger overarching thought prevails. And I don't enjoy that larger thought. I prefer to let things flow as they will. All I require is to be able to shape and control my own world. I care not what the rest of the world does, so long as I am free to pursue my own interests in an environment of my own choosing. Inactivity is a marvellous thing. It allows you to relax and look to yourself for the ability to find something interesting. If I cannot find anything worth my attention without physical activity or interaction with other people, is that not quite an indictment of your lack of imagination? I like movies and books because they offer up the mind of another person, whether it be the director, scriptwriter or author, but as a static landscape, upon which I can craft what I will. The most valuable fiction is that which entices the mind to wander on its own down its paths. That is the reason I read so much fantasy and science fiction, for the wandering is all the more fascinating for the infinite possibilities which an artificial, uncompleted universe can offer. To locate something in our own physical world, the mind naturally imposes unimpeachable limits upon it. Some things simply cannot happen, and cannot be allowed to happen. The implications of some events can reach back in ways that are all too far-reaching, especially when one works as I do, with automatically running analyses of as many ripples as I can imagine.

The world has largely turned out to be a fairly staid and uninspiring place. Every place I go, the same story unfolds. Either it is a big city, and all big cities are essentially the same, or I do not enjoy the place. In fact, I do not enjoy many big cities. But I can generally be certain that I will not like more rural areas. So I am trapped between boring cities, and unpleasant rural areas. Semi-rural areas usually manage to get classified under one or the other. So I do not look for interesting things to do, only places where I can rest and enjoy my surroundings. I sometimes think I should just jump straight to retirement. Maybe the problem is that I grew up in Singapore, where the older cultures and the international ones are all easily available. So the exotic rarely feels exotic, and the cosmopolitan is all too familiar. Even something I truly have not seen before will seem vaguely known, for my experience extends beyond the personal into the realm of mass media.

The time seems to have arrived for me to decide to make something of myself. Whether I will remains to be seen. The issue has been avoided too long, and I will have to confront it in a matter of months. Life should be more like a fantasy novel, where destiny always has something in store. But does the reader or the author ever care what happens to those the hero encounters on his path? Is their destiny to be nothing more than a part of his? Or is his to fulfil theirs? At any rate, there seems little enough in the way of resolution to this problem, and I shall torture myself over it some other time.