Deep breath, andddd...Mature

I've deactivated my Facebook. It's a massive, pointless time-sink, and I'm in stupid, fake friendships (vast majority of them anyway) that operate completely on the pretense that we like each other. Which we don't. Being friends with people like David Nolan or Cushen, and Ian Ratchford is pointless, simply because we're not even friends, only people who barely tolerate each other in the classroom. Plus there's too many discrepancies, people are seeing things that I don't want them to see, and although I don't like keeping secrets everyone has them, and are entitled to keep them. It's developing a life of it's own, to the extent that I constantly need to feed it new information; status updates about what I'm doing, photos from nights or days out, and whatever else it'd need. I probably won't last long without it, I'll end up crawling back, looking like a complete and utter fool desperate to get a new fix and get back into the loop. I'm a social creature, never mind being naturally curious and generally nosy, so it'd be all the more harder. But I'm sure it's for the better; If I become more detached from the computer and the internet in general, equating to more time studying and better grades. I might actually become a better person because of it.

But then that's not the only thing that's on my mind:

I've seen all these talented and passionate writers posting really interesting and poignant excerpts and stories on Protag, and I can't help but feel so inadequate. It's like the only thing I feel I was even slightly good at has been taken away from me, leaving me with nothing. It was my only chance to leave my mark on the world but now I feel like that it's not possible. I see all these people do amazing things, like my friend Dylan, who painted that amazing mural on his new bedroom wall, full of colour and imagery, and I can't help but be jealous. Why can't I paint a masterpiece? Micheal Coughlan got all A's in his Junior Certificate (irish state examinations), and I'm sure that if I did my bit every night and actually did some studying, I would have gotten all A's. Is it chronic procrastination, something that's become a habit due to so many years of neglected responsibilities, or is it something else? Am I just making excuses for being lazy? Stephen O Brien can play piano, saxophone, and god knows how many other instruments, and he's just so generally intelligent, you could practically class him as a polymath, and what's stopping me from reaching that level of intelligence? I want to blame my parents for not recognizing my level of intelligence and nourishing it as I got older, giving me the same opportunities that S.O.B had, but that would be immature; they have their own lives, and during my childhood they had enough to deal with: Seperation/divorce, financial problems, raising two other (somewhat delinquent) children, among other things. All I want to do now if find this THING, whatever it is, and eliminate it. 

But does it even exist?

Am I just putting problems in front of myself so I can shirk away from doing work and expending effort? Asking questions won't get me anywhere. Maybe I should organize a session with a psyche to get some of this stuff of my chest. I downloaded La Dispute's new album today. It's called Wildlife, and it's quite honestly....brilliant. Jordan Dreyer's vocals are much more restrained, but in a good way; he was way over-passionate on the previous album, to the extent that in parts he, as my good friend Declan so accurate (and funnily) put "sounds like he's being anally raped by a buzz saw" The reason I brought this up out of the blue is because on the new album, the band have a song called Harder Harmonies. I love the lyrics, I feel like I can relate to it with the whole "inadequacy" buzz. I feel like I'm out of sync with the rest of the world sometimes, everything else is passing by and I'm helpless to stop it, and no matter how much I try to change the world and make a mark it doesn't work out, it doesn't work, and eventually I'm just going to fade away into the background and become the same as everyone else in the crowd, every idea of individuality and expression and change gone.

"Like a shadow on a shadow, a phantom in a film strip,
Faint glimmer of the past trapped in mother’s old slides,
Sits still in the apartment while sifting through some pictures
Of the child that he once was and the sense of hope they framed.
“It’s a shame,”

And I fear that fate while the humming from the street keeps me awake,

He says, “I let life get twisted.
Get worn out, torn up, and late with the rent. 
And now nothing makes sense except the bench and that piano,
A feeling nearing order when I’m pressing down the chords.”
And he plays,

And it swells and breaks, but what’ll it take to make my life sound like that.

And brings a fever, a dream of sweat and ecstasy.
A kiss on every hammer hit that follows as the keys fall down 
And bring an order first, then chaos, then a calm, 
That paints every shift in murals on the wall. 
And it presses to your neck,
It clutches to your hips,
Softly sings to you of fireworks and God and art and sex and it’s strange-
That it feels so right when nothing else does.

But all the while he’s playing there’s a humming
Coming up and through the window from outside.
And even he has to admit a certain melody in it, but then why can’t he harmonize?
It’s like the city’s got it’s own song but he can’t play along.
He sees the notes as they fly by but always plays them wrong.
And in the bathroom it gets blurry, gets warm and distorted,
Like light pushed the orange of the pillbox he poured in his palm. 
It falls to the floor, he smiles as it hits,
“Sounds a little like an instrument.”

Like a voice in the choir, that hum and that drumbeat of life as an art-form 
And fire through the streets that keep moving us in silence to phantom baton sweeps,
Keep tapping to the tempo of our feet.

And all the ones who seem to fit the best into the chorus never notice there’s a song
And the ones who seem to hear it end up tortured by the chords when they fail to find
A way to sing along.

And when you sing the wrong thing it all starts collapsing.
Starts to ring out and feedback, starts lapsing and crashing, on notes that don’t clash
But that never quite feel like they match.

And I never quite feel like mine match.

There’s a melody in everything,
I’m trying to find a harmony but nothing seems to work,
Nothing seems to fit.

There’s a melody in everything,
I’m trying to find a harmony but nothing seems to work,
Nothing seems to fit.

There’s a melody in everything,
I’m trying to find a harmony but nothing seems to work,
Nothing fits" 

I found out the word that describes how I feel lately: Wanderlust. According to, wanderlust is "A very strong or irresistible impulse to travel". But is it that I'm feeling more wanting to escape where I am rather than wanting to explore. There's a difference, surely. Sometimes, when I'm walking home, I just want to walk in the opposite direction. And keep going. I want to get LOST. I want to go somewhere where I already haven't been, experience something new other than that which I already have. In a sense you could say I want to go on an adventure. How ridiculous. In times like these, where every inch of sea, sky and land is mapped by satellite technology, what chance does imagination and adventure have? In a world where everything has already been discovered, the concept of adventure is completely laughable. That's why I'm turning more and more to writing, as a form of escape from a world that I'm starting to resent more and more every day. I prefer to live in the world that I make in my head rather than the real world. I prefer to imagine a world where magic and mystery still exist in a sense rather than putting up with the same banal routine everyday. It's why I live with my headphones on my head, so I can drown out everything else and listen to music, something that helps formulate and inspire me to write. Maybe that is what is stopping me from reaching my full potential, of becoming self-actualized; the fact that I live in a fairy tale.  Sylvia Plath's poem "The Times Are Tidy" comes to mind:

"Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobless
And the mayor's rotisserie turns
Round of its own accord.

There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-days
To leaf-size from lack of action:
History's beaten the hazard.

The last crone got burnt up
More than eight decades back
With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,
But the children are better for it,
The cow milks cream an inch thick"

The way I interpret it is that she's lamenting how heroes born in modern times never realize their potential (not to say that I think I am a hero) but she comments on how in today's terms, life is much more comfortable because of all the conveniences we have. And I appreciate them as well, but at the same time, I can't help but hate it.

I'm tired. I'm probably going to bed soon.

The End

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