“'But I don’t want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can’t help that,' said the Cat. 'We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.'
''How do you know I’m mad?' said Alice.
'You must be,” said the Cat. 'or you wouldn’t have come here.'”
-Alice in Wonderland
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
And So It Begins
When your life is consumed with simply surviving, can you really call it living?
Ok, that was a thoroughly misleading introduction. Contrary to what one might assume from that first sentence, I am not some undereducated single mother of four who works three jobs just to keep a roof over her family’s head. Nor am I an impoverished blind man in a third world country who rummages daily through trash cans for some scraps of a meal. No, get this —I’m an upper middle class, fairly intelligent, not all too unattractive, twenty-something with a secure job, a loving family, sweet boyfriend and a couple of really great friends.
So, what’s my issue? The last thing I want is to be some spoiled brat of a Gen-Yer who’s complaining over a life that, let’s face it, a good chunk of people would find enviable.
Comparatively, my life is freaking awesome.
But, you know what—I’m restless. I moved to New York two years ago in hopes of...I don’t know...finding myself.
God, was that just the most clichéd tripe? But, you know, that’s me —a walking cliché.
Anyway, instead of finding myself, instead of becoming immersed in a world of bohemia, a world of never ending coffee shop conversations, of short stories written over one too many glasses of red wine and nights that blend into morning—a world I’m not entirely sure really exists—instead, I find myself consumed with a typical, draining 9 - 5 job and the daily monotony of laundry, grocery shopping, and other insipid trivialities that leave me precious little time to pursue anything creative or worthwhile.
At days end, my mind is so exhausted from keeping up the facade of happy little corporate hamster and funnelling all of my artistic energy into copying and collating, that all I want to do is come back to my apartment and crawl into bed with a glass of wine and MTV. I can’t force myself to think any longer, so I watch the most mindless television there is—Real Housewives of New York, anyone?—until, eventually, I drift off to sleep, already gearing up to do it all over again the next day.
I’m afraid that one day I’m going to wake up and see that my life has already passed me by. I’ll be 65 with a retirement plan, a husband I rarely see, and 2 kids that I don’t know.
Trouble is—I don’t see any way around it. There are so many people with missed dreams and passions squashed by necessity. Why should I be any different?
Answer: I shouldn’t.
But, fuck it, I’m going to be. At least that’s the plan. I have no clue how. Or if it’s even going to work. But I’m going to try. I’ve got to shake off my complacency, my fear of the unknown, and the masochistic comfort I find in the organized cubicle that is my life.
This is my blog, my existential crisis, my journey.
Header provided by freewebpageheaders.com
Ok, that was a thoroughly misleading introduction. Contrary to what one might assume from that first sentence, I am not some undereducated single mother of four who works three jobs just to keep a roof over her family’s head. Nor am I an impoverished blind man in a third world country who rummages daily through trash cans for some scraps of a meal. No, get this —I’m an upper middle class, fairly intelligent, not all too unattractive, twenty-something with a secure job, a loving family, sweet boyfriend and a couple of really great friends.
So, what’s my issue? The last thing I want is to be some spoiled brat of a Gen-Yer who’s complaining over a life that, let’s face it, a good chunk of people would find enviable.
Comparatively, my life is freaking awesome.
But, you know what—I’m restless. I moved to New York two years ago in hopes of...I don’t know...finding myself.
God, was that just the most clichéd tripe? But, you know, that’s me —a walking cliché.
Anyway, instead of finding myself, instead of becoming immersed in a world of bohemia, a world of never ending coffee shop conversations, of short stories written over one too many glasses of red wine and nights that blend into morning—a world I’m not entirely sure really exists—instead, I find myself consumed with a typical, draining 9 - 5 job and the daily monotony of laundry, grocery shopping, and other insipid trivialities that leave me precious little time to pursue anything creative or worthwhile.
At days end, my mind is so exhausted from keeping up the facade of happy little corporate hamster and funnelling all of my artistic energy into copying and collating, that all I want to do is come back to my apartment and crawl into bed with a glass of wine and MTV. I can’t force myself to think any longer, so I watch the most mindless television there is—Real Housewives of New York, anyone?—until, eventually, I drift off to sleep, already gearing up to do it all over again the next day.
I’m afraid that one day I’m going to wake up and see that my life has already passed me by. I’ll be 65 with a retirement plan, a husband I rarely see, and 2 kids that I don’t know.
Trouble is—I don’t see any way around it. There are so many people with missed dreams and passions squashed by necessity. Why should I be any different?
Answer: I shouldn’t.
But, fuck it, I’m going to be. At least that’s the plan. I have no clue how. Or if it’s even going to work. But I’m going to try. I’ve got to shake off my complacency, my fear of the unknown, and the masochistic comfort I find in the organized cubicle that is my life.
This is my blog, my existential crisis, my journey.
Header provided by freewebpageheaders.com
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