So it’s back to the whirring, grinding and clacking humdrum of living and commuting; today, and then  tomorrow, and then the next day…

Nowadays I spend my waking unoccupied hours trying to decide how I feel about things, because it’s been barely a week since the exhilaration of performing 6 straight shows, which I’ve never done, and already I feel quite distant. I try to mourn, I try to be ordinary (oh gosh guys, I haven’t seen you guys in ages thanks to choir – let’s hang!) and overcompensate, but that nasty little voice at the back of my head tells me I just want to go home and crawl under the covers and lie down or watch Buffy or read Virginia Woolf. But when I actually choose to do that I end up having takeaway Hot ‘n’ Spicy chicken from KFC while waiting for Friends to load, and Whatsapping people who can’t see my face, and then abandoning the conversation at first opportunity.

Maybe it’s a transitional thing, and I want the old days back because they were simple and contained and finite, and I never felt like I would ever be incapable of dealing with my imperfections.

But now it is different.

Why oh why are people always coveting, always feeling inadequate and unfulfilled, always comparing, always jealous, always getting stuck in that pothole of self-pity where we think we deserve more just because we have once dreamed big? And now, having lost sight of some part of that dream makes us feel wronged, as if someone has robbed us of something we were entitled to?

I wish it was easier for us to be satisfied. I wish it was easier to accept, and come to terms with the binds that circumstances have locked into place. I wish I didn’t wish I sing better, dance better, write better, speak better, love better. Being happy shouldn’t be difficult. It shouldn’t be so conditional, so demanding, and so easily sullied.

What’s worse is that I seem to have walked straight out of university into being surrounded by people that are perpetually lamenting how they should have been somebody better and bigger. Oh they should have been pursuing the career of their dreams, be high-flying young men and women in their twenties, fashionably dressed, doing what they loved the most, and taking the world by storm at the same time!

Do we really deserve that much in life?

I once spoke to an oldish man, very successful, very rich, and probably living that high-flying life recruiter leaflets trick us into longing for, who recounted how he started work heaving bullions in a mint at sixteen years old.

We don’t do that anymore. Nowadays we get fed into the system, and then after about 18 unspectacular years of churning out worksheet after worksheet, battling exam after exam, chasing achievement after achievement, the machine spits us out into the big bad world. It leaves us with nothing but a wispy paper scroll tied up in a ribbon, all wobbly and dazed from the years of living nice and sheltered lives.

So do we really deserve anything more than 70 more years of living an unspectacular life?

I suppose reading depressing books doesn’t do me a lot of good, does it.