Subtitled check your developed-nation privilege and mundane first-world problems.
But sometimes, someone has the felicity of expression that so neatly coincides with a mild and probably passing case of what-has-my-life-come-to that it needs to be repeated out of fear, perhaps, that within lies a kernel of truth. Whatevs. It spoke to me.
“Cram the wild, ungovernable, truly creative and madly generous part of your psyche into evenings, weekends and a few weeks off, when you’re too knackered, uptight and rushed to meaningfully develop it; when you’d much rather blitz out or just buy some entertainment than create anything for yourself.
[Talk about…entertainment and media reports]…ideally by complaining.
Repeat until your death-bed, when you suddenly realise that your whole life has been an utterly pointless sham and the pure experience of solitude that encroaching death brings on is utterly impossible to communicate meaningfully to any of your so-called friends and loved ones, who watch on helplessly (or even impatiently) as you the pseudo-life you have lived passes inexplicably into a moment of genuine aliveness that nobody can understand.”
Adapted from randomly discovered Guardian commenter, ‘mimpiview’, 05 October 2013.
(And, how many of us are lucky to have friends and family around when we die, but I digress…)
What else? Keep reading and keep writing. Keep quoting Thoreau to ourselves while imagining a way to escape whatever quiet desperation is the lot of those born to dream until one day the life we imagine and the life we lead are congruent.
Insert quote by Robert Frost if you like. Or one by Melville, or Hawthorne, or whatever quietly melancholy American writer you like. Or something, something, funny old thing, life eh?