Work, confusion, too-little-time. I think these might be the ingredients for a healthy heart. The last week has been sort of a flashback to this time a year back, when I couldn’t decide on a subject for my bachelor thesis. I’m writing an assignment of the same size (now it’s just called an assignment; things move fast) in the coming months and I am right where I was back then; shifting from one subject to the next, finding everything extremely interesting and dull at the same time, building up my list of literature with (it seems) every new page I turn – there’s always some footnote that grabs my attention, forcing me to order a new book, search a new subject, losing myself further into the depths of this great boundary between the known and the unknown.
But at the same time I have to credit the method: I have had none of my emotional flares while this has been going on. The nights I usually spent imagining futures, twisting and turning, cold sweat burning, I now just read away, the end of day closing in on me. And then sleep. Sleep all through the darkness of the night, leaving my dreams as dreams when I finally open my eyes on the other side of the divide; a new day, new chapter. Now, more than ever, I begin where I left off: progression. Working towards something, even if I don’t know what the end will hold.
Maybe that’s the difference between me in this state and me in all other states of my life. Here the process is so absorbing, I scarcely have time to even contemplate the end of the project and what the world will look like at that time. Heck, I’m going to a concert tomorrow, and that still seems so far ahead, as if hidden by the fog outside my window. I can’t really grasp it, even though it’s something I’ve been looking forward to for weeks now. Tomorrow might as well be tomorrow in a year.
Time seems to stretch in weird ways when you’re engulfed in a project, whatever that project might be. The deadline comes ever closer, at such a rapid pace you wonder what you did with the time that must have passed, while at the same time it seems farther ahead than ever before. It’s this difference between the time-as-days and time-as-work that forces me out of my melancholia. I guess there just isn’t any room for that in my castle of books.
There’s always room for Nicolas Jaar, though. I keep coming back to the 2008-2012 generation of indie (go ahead, flame me for my use of vague terms) and electronic music. So much happened in those years. Both musically and in my life. Those years were, in lack of a better term, formative. I still feel like the world is trying to catch up to what happened back then. There was hope. There was creativity. Movements were starting. The world was becoming a more accepting place.
Now it seems like all that has been forgotten. Was it too much pressure for the average American to see guys kissing guys, girls kissing girls, people wearing what they wanted to wear? Was it too much pressure for the world to suddenly see society form itself instead of letting religion form it? Did we somehow lose the only referee we had? Who will be the judge, when half the world believes the judge is in the sky, and the other half believes the judge is called law? And what happens when part of the people who believe the judge is called law use this for their advantage, rendering the law inconsistent?
What I’m trying to get at is: why does humanity create its own downfall so goddamn always?
I’m not angry. I’m not sad. I shed no tears for humanity. But I am confused. So utterly confused as to what I can do. What we can do. And that’s my project. That’s the assignment I’m writing. If philosophers do not strive to save humanity from itself, then who will? Priests, banks, loaners. There has to be a better answer than magic thoughts and magic paper.
There has to be an end.