Epiphany

There comes a time when one just has to admit how dull they have truly become. Everything I do is careful and measured, I do certain things on certain days, see the same people and the same sights. Eat the same food and drink the same drink becasue it’s all so safe and all so simple and all so conveniently there. The worst thing about realising this complete rut is that I know I’m not going to do anything about it. It’s not that I don’t want to- I’d love to be drinking champagne off of Katie Sackhoffs face on some exotic beach, it’s just that I have a terrible mix of personality traits. I.e:
Laziness. I is universally acknowledged that I very much enjoy slumming it in front of a computer, eating whatever is to hand and quaffing wine out of a pint glass nicked from the pub. This satisfies me and blanks my mind to the changes I really want to make.
Stubborness. My stubborness is stuff of legend. I will not back down on any subject because I have decided what is right and what is wrong and that’s that. Irritating. I will not change from my chosen path.
Cynicism. "It’s not worth changing my mind anyway, because everything is bound to go wrong regardless."
Acceptance. I take things as they come with a wry smile and a sarcastic comment, shrug and get on with what I’m doing. This can be a great virtue in the right circumstances, but is a crippling flaw when changes need to be made- putting up with being miserable is nonsensical, but is part of what makes me me.

The irritating thing is that I’m screaming at myself really. I hate my own laziness and look on myself with something bordering disgust, my stubborness infuriates me as I like to experience new things and I often stop myself on strange clauses that I don’t quite understand myself. My cynyicism makes me seem like a gloomy old malcontent when underneath I like running around and being daft once I’m in the frame of mind. And my acceptance is possibly the worst of all. Every screed of anger, every mote of rage, every photon of pure , unalloyed fury gets quietly and neatly tucked away in the back of my mind where it ranckles and nudges at the other emotions I’ve got holding it back. I act friendly and happy as the anger I had at somebody or something turns on myself and my doormat outlook on life and turns to cold self disgust. I end up being a worm in the mud while I’m dreaming dreams of grandeur.

It’s not like I don’t have points to almost redeem myself. I can be a hopeless romantic, an affable clown, a drinking buddy, a shoulder to cry on. I can talk on most subjects, give amusing or ultimately pointless facts, I can laugh at myself, I love kids, I love animals and I can be stirred to tears by music or art or scenery. I can recite poetry and I can write and I can help people. There’s lots I can do. But these are more abstract principles driven out by the main facets of my personality as previously listed. I’ve gone through this sort of congealing process from a kind of fluid happiness, flowing where I will, washing happily past the rocks that try and get in my way, into a kind of thick viscous sludge of melancholy that dwells on things that get in his way and gets nowhere fast.

And although all this text sounds melancholic I’m not actually in too bad a mood. I can here the gulls outside and see them whooshing pat the window. There’s a guy just down the road playing the saxophone, and the muffled voice of Abdul the barber down stairs talking to his customers affably. It’s warm and fairly bright, I’ve got food in my belly and I’m listening to music that I’ve heard a million times but still like. I’m quite comfortable and relaxed altogether. But that’s the problem really.