There is a moment in one’s life when one needs absolute nothingness. Total isolation from the rest of the world, no responsibilities nor obligations, no one to see and not a thing to do, no thoughts or ideas to thrive on. This is what I currently need.
I am used to keeping myself intensely busy and running around looking for things to do or thoughts to have. A headless chicken if I ever saw one.
Existing can be such a burden and drinking in bed such a relief, a form of quiet escapism. Like reading a book cover to cover, drowning one’s personality and troubles into someone’s else life.
I am contemplating the sum of my life in memories I don’t fully remember, objects I have lost, broken or left behind, scars and bruises misplaced all over me. Not only am I the sum of everything I have but also everything I don’t.
It is quite poetic, if not totally depressing. I know.
Nothingness in this very case does not equal frugality. Au contraire, indulge in opulence and luxury. One fucking deserves it. It is all about taking it all in and enjoying all of it and nothing else.
This is not to be mistaken for a depression pit. No. Doing nothing in order to enjoy it, is pure hedonism.
And let’s not kid ourselves: I will not be drinking champagne in high-thread-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets. I will, at best, have a bottle of wine from Lidl and watch Derry Girls on the sofa. That’s the life I chose to lead.