The Thing that I Do


The thing that I do is that I make myself into a regular guy, a regular person with a life and friends and a place to live and things to do and everything is cool, everything is fine. Or is it cool? Is it fine? I don’t know. This is the bit that always gets me – I’m not really sure if it’s cool or not cool or whatever the hell it might be. I am somewhat baffled by it all. There is always something a bit frustrating, a bit pointless about it. At times I wonder what exactly I am doing, and why I am doing it. I make myself be this person or that person with this sort of a life or that sort of a life and then all the stuff happens – the good stuff and the bad stuff and all the stuff in-between. You know how it goes. I don’t even know what to say about all of that. It’s all just stuff and whether it’s good or bad or something in-between makes no difference really. It’s just stuff…


It’s the same every time. You’d think it might be different every time but it isn’t. I make myself into this person or that person, with this sort of a life or that sort of a life, and then there you are right slap-bang in the middle of all this stuff, caught up in it, involved with it, attached negatively and positively with it. And you’re defining yourself in terms of it, in terms of your relationship with it, whether you like it or don’t like it, whether there’s stuff you don’t have that you wish you had or stuff that you do have that you wish you didn’t, and so on. So maybe at any one time it would be fine, or not fine, or somewhere in-between. But whatever way it was it was just stuff, it was just whatever. It was all fine because it was all just whatever it was and that was it. That was how that it was going and either you would like it or you wouldn’t but it didn’t really matter because that was just how it worked. Everything that happened was just the stuff that happened- it was all just stuff arranged in different ways.


But at same time that was – as I have said – something rather frustrating about it all. There was something hollow, something ridiculously fatuous about the whole thing. From time to time you couldn’t help seeing that it was all just such a farce, such a joke. You couldn’t help seeing that it was all completely stupid. It was all completely and utterly stupid and yet at the same time it all seems so bloody normal when you’re actually in it. For the most part you don’t think anything of it. What I mean is that it doesn’t seem stupid at all. It’s not a farce, it’s not ridiculous. It’s not absurdly fatuous. It’s not hollow – it’s as solid as anything could be – it’s the world. It’s the only way anything could be…


So the thing that I keep wondering (whenever it comes to me to wonder, that is) is why do I keep doing this thing that I am doing? What’s the point of it? Why do I bother with this bullshit? And the weird thing that I keep coming back to is that I have absolutely no idea. I don’t know why I keep doing it…







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