Being back is weird. Not least because I went from balmy warmth to freezing cold weather in a matter of days upon first arriving in the UK from Melbourne. But the weirdness is a ham-fisted way of describing how it feels to be back and not really ‘back’. In one way yes, I’m from here, I grew up in this country, in London; but the idea of a ‘home’ or a ‘base’ has always eluded me. Plus I’ve moved house more times than I can count.
I saw a guy last night on the tube, solving and then resetting a Rubik’s Cube, over and over again. It took him about 30 seconds to solve before he mixed the squares up and started over. He never looked at the cube for longer than a few seconds, and it seemed that the task had merely become one of dexterity practice. I watched him from the other side of the carriage and thought “huh.” I had seen two other men doing the exact same thing in the last month, on the tube, late at night. Is that weird, does it mean something, or both?
Sometimes the week just kind of disappears, doesn’t it? I’ve been trying to focus on/ remember the little things that make me happy throughout the week; the things that seem inconsequential but when I look more closely at them, I realise that they helped me survive the week. However, my memory is not what it once was, so I must dig deep to pull out some positive treasure.
I promised myself this week that I would seriously consider the subject of stress and de-stressing. But alas, I did not do that. I’ve barely given it any thought, which is why I never make promises. That is, I don’t make them to other people, but continue to do it to myself, knowing that I can’t really be mad at me if I don’t follow through. This endless cycle of babbling thoughts is why I haven’t done what I said I was going to do, and is a symptom of the stress that I have come to know very well.
Dissatisfaction is a difficult thing not to think about. It’s like an itch that’s in an awkward place that you can’t really get to alone, so you try to ignore it; convince yourself it’s not there. But the more you try to do that, the worse the itch becomes until it’s pretty much all you can think about, and now somehow, you’re itchy all over. People have always told me I’m an overthinker and I can’t think why…
‘Tis the month of April and fools alike! I thankfully was not the receiver of any pranks on April 1st; that I know of anyway. Instead I took a trip to the theatre to see Billy Elliot before it closed. I had wanted to see it since it opened some ten years ago, but true to form I just kept saying “eventually, eventually”, until I got kicked up the bum and into action when I saw that the show’s run was coming to an end. So this time at least, I beat procrastination.
A couple of weeks ago I read an article about this study in America that asked a thousand or so older people what their biggest regret in life was. My friends and I thought it would be ‘I wished I’d travelled more’ or ‘dated more’ or ‘eaten more’, but our guesses were all wrong. The overwhelming answer was ‘I wish I hadn’t spent so much of my life worrying’.
What is it about being ill that is so annoying and eye opening in equal measure? Struck down with what I suspect was a stress induced head cold this week, I found myself thinking about life, love and (an ongoing theme of this blog) the eternal question of “what am I doing with my life?!” When I’m sick I’ve not got much else to do but mull over these things. My alternatives are trying to move and having my body revolt with a chesty cough and a pounding headache. So ponder I must…
Why are we all so god-damned busy?! I don’t mean jam-packed-but-organised-day kind of busy, I mean task-on-top-of-task-on-top-of-a-never-ending-to-do-list kind of busy. Maybe it’s just me but I struggle to remember the last time in my adult life post-university, where I lay around and let nothingness occupy my mind. The ‘good old days’ is what we call them now.
Making a big decision whilst sleep deprived is a lot like operating heavy machinery whilst under the influence of powerful medicine that contains codeine; it feels like a really good idea until you realise you’ve just been sat on your bed pretending you’re a bus driver, and you don’t even own a car. This metaphor has (like most of my metaphors) become extremely confused and nonsensical. And this is a perfect example of the effects of sleep deprivation.