Time Wasting

Wasting time makes me feel physically nausious. It is so stupid and ugly!

I have had a think. I went through a few very traumatising days of horrific depression the other day, an ordeal from which I needed time to physically recover. I notice that depression does have it's value, despite the despair with which it intoxicates one at the time. It's utility is in it's capacity to force one to reavaluate things, as generally many intense psychological experiences do. As such, I often emerge from depression remarkably refreshed after the exhaustion and disorientation has subsided, with a new sense of determination to make proper use of my time and my life. I appreciate that to those who have experienced depression, it EMPHATICALLY wants no advertisement whatsoever... But perhaps at this alone I sound less alien to those familiar with the infinite miseries of full blown intense depression. Depression happens when it wishes- controls and refuses to be controlled. But emerging from that darkness into a less intense misery, there is a lethargy and general sense futility and miserableness which very easily lingers around one like a bad smell, the bad smell of being wallowing and weakened. This darkness plauges one as a pernicious idea- the idea of futility and despair. This is to be avoided, for inevitably the destructive consequences of this attitude give cause for depression once more and a terribly persistent cyclical pattern emerges. I have found, therefore, that depression can be directed to produce extraordinary feats of self discipline, as by a mechanism of coping and escape- the incredible power of an organism in a struggle for survival springs forth with imposing and supernatural ferocity.

And what did I see looking upon my life? I had to think about what I was doing. Habits, when unexamined, often find carelessness in their becoming a habit at their source and are therefore rarley productive; My love of philosophy, psychology, physics, politics frequently captivated my interest and directed my attention away from working on my maths. Consequently, I ended up in a frantic dash at the last moments I could find to do all my work, stifled by my lack of organization. But my interests cannot captivate me permanently and incessantly. Creativity springs forth when it wishes, and refuses to be commanded. It demands sleep from it's subject. But what is left when it runs dry and needs recovery to accumulate it's sources once more? Insomnia no longer persists, just an interupted sleeping habit. One's hours are not overflowing with everything that they will possibly contain, but they are empty, tumbling past idly. Idleness, now I understand, truly is the devil's work- it's products are destruction, waste and eventually misery.

Now, I have done crazy things- organised my time, material to learn, planned. I must watch my sleeping habits and make only exceptional allowances for creativity to disrupt reasonable sleeping. Then, I complete work for the most part until the early afternoon and have the rest of the day free. Should I fail to get work done, then I am able to catch up the next day. Thus, I am able to engage with my work and I am not overloaded with it. I cannot relax all through the evening with the lights off, but compromisingly, I shall do dull reading then and make sure I have dealt with creativity beforehand. And, certainly, life, although purposeless, gives itself a sense of one- and that is always delightfull!

Where to start?

First words, always the most difficult.

2:23am. Make that 2:24. It is now Wednesday; the worst day of them all. Why the fuck am I writing a blog?

I refound this blog on my computer, on which I used to use to post everything that passed the time in my then dreary, drab, abject existance- and it evidently was, such that I wrote such bollocks. As someone who proffesses some degree of interest in history and historical method, it should be very strange that I now found myself in such a position to be doing detective work on myself. But detective work it certainly was; this time period of my life (and the year preceeding it) seem to be virtually erased from my memories, flickering and ambiguous as those of when I was five.

Perhaps Ironically, this was also the most 'normal' period of my life. That is to say, I fitted in most with convention and orthodoxy more than I ever have. I cannot help but find it now hilarious that according to Freud, my unconcious found the experience so traumatising that it has done no less that surpress my memory of the ordeal.

But reading through, whilst not exactley being nostalgic in the strictest sense of the word, was indeed very strange. I often wonder, if I had started writing this article, or drawing this picture, or reading this book... at some other time, would I have produced the same words, ideas, thoughts, images? I would put my bets on 'no'. We are shaped by every flickering moment that escapes us, so it may seem.

So, it was incredibly strange to read back something I had written as though written by another person. What an egotistical, lonley, pointless, content, procrastinating existance the 'normal' life seemed to be- frittering away your beautiul moments with shit that you think makes you happy...

I hope then, if for no other purpose, I can write whenever I feel the desire to- not for any audience- but for the audience of my future self. As these words unfold from underneath my fingers echoing through the halls of time, I roughly vow to keep them (relativley) the same as they are 'mine' 'now'- so that I may read with that same insight and remind myself at some point, (or should I say, you should remind yourself) that you are in perpetual change, the present you is you ever have been, are and will be and you may now credit yourself with intellect (as our old us wrongly did) you may look back at your (now future) present writings and come back in a few years and laugh at how amateur they were. If only this serves as a memo to remind me and let me truly realise the propensity of mankind to mistakenly credit himself with being 'the most advanced he's ever been' but forgetting that in 1000 years- provided the US has no annihilated the universe- we will be but aztecs, ancient Greecians. I am sure the same apply to these words, that they will become stale and humourous in their pretentions or whatever it may be, over years with maturing and fermentation. Should I acquire any other readers, that would just be ironic and the present me finds it amusing.

We tend to view ourselves as timeless, because we are; in that we are glued to the present, within our perception. My entire 'aim' if I could have the ability to possess any, in writing this is to adress that issue of human identity- what makes me, me? Are we all one conciousness, divided into different fragments in order to percieve ourselves? In the same way that the mind is but a valve which imposes time, space, categories e.t.c. onto experience in order to allow for conciousness? Do we ever step in the same river twice? It is all very interesting and I cannot go into all that at quarter to three in the morning.

But certainly, the 'purpose' I have now assigned to the blog reminds me of the criticisms of John Locke's memory explanation for human identity. That is, at point a in one's life, one does action x. At point b, one does action y and remembers x. At point c, one remembers action y, but does not remember x- and is thus, not the same as at point b. Of course, this is nothing but playing around with Locke's definition, but the analogy resumes.

One thing I do hope, when I read this back- that I still have the thirst for knowledge, the knowledge it doesn't exist and have realised the death of my ego.

As well as a letter to myself, I write this to my present self. I don't really know you. I indefinatley definatley go through bouts of manic depression and bipolarity, for sure. Perhaps if this serves to document it, this may help with my simply attrocious episodic memory, if not for ventilation.

Finally, as my thoughtfulness hopefully seems to increase, my thoughts also increase. I need to write some down just as something for my later nostalgia, and who knows? Some of it might be good.

Having outlined and cleared this all out in my head, I shall put what is in my head down on cyber paper so that I can put my insomnia to sleep for another day...