Last night I was reading The Only Story – Julian Barnes, which is a very good book, a lot of food for thought, but it is also a very sad book (in my entirely biased opinion). I haven’t finished it yet, I still have a few pages left and I am hoping for a silver lining. I let this book break my spirit. I caused myself insomnia because of all the thoughts I had about life after reading from the book. I was pondering life. Mine, obviously, in relation to my family and friends and I started feeling incredibly alone. I started believing that I actually had no one by my side and that life has no purpose if I am alone. Let’s not take this as sign that the book has something wrong with it, because it doesn’t; it’s just a book, I was very introspective and also on my period. Back to the matter at hand: this feeling always surprises me; it is insidious, I am never openly desperate or in pain when something is touching me like that. I am just curiously empty on the inside, thinking that there is really no point in living one’s life and what-the-fuck-are-we-all-doing-pretending-that-all-this-ever-means-anything.
Thankfully, the following morning comes. I am still a bit down, I am hoping it’s just hormones. I can see now, it is I who make my life matter and that friends and family are just one WhatsApp message away.
I give meaning to – and take meaning away from – MY life.
It could be argued that today, I am stubbornly hopeful, because I need it 🙂
