Some days are like vampires…

Some days are like vampires. On reflection, you find that there was really nothing much there, no depth or substance and that this memory and image-in-the-mirror of experience reveals some empty metallic, battery-taste of exquisite pointless duration, repetition, of pantomimery. Structure without reason and exhaustion without purpose: the many masks of uncertainty.

I find myself asking: “Does anyone else here (also) know that no one actually knows what’s going on, that everyone is improvising and that the more certain someone claims to be on any ideological, political or other qualitative matter is almost a guaranteed inverse confession of spectacular, near-catastrophic doubt and insecurity ? Have you noticed that it is those who are most certain of their truth who take most offence when you suggest that there is none ?”

Small wonder we cram every nook and cranny of our time and experience with a peacock-feathered burlesque and colourful, humming electrical or sparkling presence, vision, sound and narrative or that we take solace in beautiful illusions, the promises and failures of lust and desire or these myriad and shared falsifications of cultural mythology and purpose. If there’s no actual depth or direction and destiny to all of this, we are cut adrift in attempting to create it ourselves, frantically, neurotically, haunted by impermanence and the brevity of our time in this world. The joy of being able to just let all of this all-too-human crap go eludes me; like a puppet unwilling or constitutively unable to cut those sinuous strings and c(h)ords by which he dances and swaggers, careens and stumbles forwards through life (and all the while glancing backwards over my shoulders in vain attempts to make sense of this random walk and awkward, bumbling, muddled parade).

Some days are indeed like vampires and today is one of these; I feel drained of enthusiasm for this game of pretend-knowing and play-acting all of our various paths and roles throughout the day. Today I am being a grown-up, tomorrow probably the same again and in not too many thousands of days I will be an old man. One day I will no longer be and then, still, no one will know what is going on.

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