“It’s certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, at one time, you’ve got it, and then you lose it, and it’s gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed…”
Bit of a weird one today.
Thursday night was a good one, M, M and I stayed up, watched films and (I) got pissed, which led me to remarking, as I stood barefoot in the pissing rain dragging on a moist cigarette ‘That was fun, I never get to have fun any more.’ I remember this through the booze-fog because I remember that M looked a bit hurt. Sadly, it was the truth. We went in, had a bit of a fumble, and I fell asleep, convinced that I would be numb for the rest of my life.
I spent yesterday in a kind of giddy exhaustion, reminiscent of how I spent an awful lot of days in my late teens and early twenties – oh, devil Alcohol. The way I dealt with it then, of course, was to keep drinking for as long as I could; I still maintain that when the worst has been lanced by analgesics, baked beans and Irn Bru, there is nothing so effective as some sunshine and the hair of the dog that bit ya. I’m too jaded and lonely for that now, there is no novelty in a 6-day-bender, not when your primary fiscal concern is scraping together the deposit for a flat above a shop. But maybe that’s something that has bled away too… No, the way I dealt with it this time was by staying up ’til 5 watching American Horror Story. Not being a habitual TV watcher there is a whole plethora of programming (of various calibre) that sweeps loudly past me without the slightest pause or introduction – I don’t care. This has been on my list for a while though, and an evening alone, working on some stock for the shop, seemed the perfect opportunity to get into it.
Seven hours later I am developing a crush on Tate, and wondering where my beautiful Cobain boy was when I was going through the mill at school. This leads me back to a recurrent thought that dogs me now, and has done for some years – where did I go? What happened to the angst-driven hormone mess that was my identity for so long? I realize it’s normal to grow out of teenage extremes, but is it normal for perspective to shift so dramatically, for your life calling to shrivel away (even if that calling is only to carry on regardless), for time to limewash your insides?
Something is missing. Feelings are missing. No disappointment, no anger, no arousal, no real sadness, no happiness, no hunger, no doubt, no fear, no love, no butterflies? I look at work from the hard times and recognise the me that was, but can’t empathise, can’t remember. I used to have my own ideas, it was a point of pride not to poach. Sometimes, now, there’s a glimmer of an old humour or a flicker of an old indignation, but most of the time I feel my pilot light burning very low indeed. Is this the brain medicine, or is it time? Either way, today I am feeling thoroughly McMurphy’d.