I have been spending a lot of hours trying to figure out what exactly is wrong with my life. because I am not content. I am not. occasionally I am happy, sad, excited, exhausted, furious or angry, but most of the time I feel numb, empty, ambivalent. I walk through like days as if they are clouds. I don’t see any beauty around me, I barely pay attention to any details anymore.
and then one night, I realized it. I am not obsessed with anything. there used to be times when I was adamantly focused on a single thing. most of the time, it served absolutely no purpose, but it kept me going. it was giving me an inner purpose. early and mid-teenage years were marked with kurt cobain and nirvana. I was breathing them. everything was about kurt cobain and I thought he would have been my soulmate, if he was still around. he made me start writing letters and lists. the way I dress, even now, is entirely influenced by the grudge period. I used to read pages and bits and pieces from heavier than heaven, every day, like it was a bible. and it was to me. had it not been for cobain’s journals, I would have been cheated for some four hundred bands and artists that I would never hear of otherwise and my music taste would never develop the way it has. I will, without feeling a pinch of embarrassment, admit that kurt cobain and nirvana left the most lasting impact on my life. I barely ever listen to them anymore, but they have never fully left me, either.
when I was younger, it was harry potter. everything about it. I memorized spells and the way how to cook up various lotions and potions. I memorized entire lines from the book. and the films, I knew every single frame by heart. I even skipped school to watch the pre-premier of the first three films. I think of that with great fondness. then there was white oleander and everything about it. I attempted to read or at least know as much as possible about every single book or a work of art mentioned on the pages. then there was sisterhood of traveling pants, which I must have read over a hundred times. as I grew older, I saw myself in a different girl every few years. there was also a period of time lasting about a year and a half when everything in my life was about my moleskine journals and keeping my handwriting straight. I obsessed over goddard’s cinema. I obsessed over lion king, which is perhaps my longest obsession, which started in 1994. I obsessed over buying films and never downloading them. I was proud of this fact. I obsessed over keeping my books in perfect order and color-coded according to the pantone. there were dozens of things throughout the years that kept me sharp. or at least, it’s how I saw it. it was purposeless to the outside world, but it was giving me purpose. it kept me busy, it kept me interested and educated in a way that had nothing do with academics.
but no more. I dare to say, the last twelve months or so, no more. I’d lost that. that feeling, that drive. that willingness to obsess over something that isn’t even remotely relevant, but it is. these days I am just floating through my interests. watching films, but not really. instead of foreign cinematography, I’d turned to american television shows. my interest for chinese and/or french almost disappeared. I’d forgotten all the kings and queen’s of england that ever lived and I could probably just name one bone in the body, instead of all 206. in latin. I’d lost interest of any kind. and that’s why I am not happy. nothing keeps me going forward.
I am just floating through my days and I am completely clueless as how to return my drive. just because you’re breathing, doesn’t mean that you are alive. what a waste of words. I honestly hope I will find my way back one day. I have to.