So apparently, I’m starting the New Year with fresh sense of non-belongingness…
Maybe it stems from the fact that I have conditioned myself to believe in this idea that a work has to mean something. In a society that comes from the hunter gatherers, who tip-toed for survival, had leisure and played and looked at stars, the society of today seems like a disappointment. It is somehow an orderly chaos that works in a system similar to a life cycle. Everything useless supports everything useless.
As you keep going up the ladder, meet people from the circle of elite, you start noticing the hollowness of the conversations and their demeanour and work.
What do I Do? I feel this hollowness in my chest as I sit to work – because what is the point of this? This curated narration to lead people to think a particular way and not the other. But isn’t that what any group of people do? Create a particular narrative to sway people to think and believe certain way. If that is the purpose of words then I’m not sure if I can do that. Or If I can do that and not feel tightness in my chest. The tightness might just be a physical ailment, like lack of iron or haemoglobin or something instead of the physical effect of a psychological stress. There is no way to know. Except of course besides spending a lot of money on tests and doctors. And, to be able to spend that amount, I need to labour through the tightness in my chest.
But then again, why am I thinking so much about what impact does the work that I do to earn my living has on the world? The purpose of it is to fill my and my family’s stomach and needs, which it fulfils, so why should it matter otherwise. Is that how the scammers and the dacoits and corrupt politicians and administrators think too? No wonder we’re doomed.
After labouring for a little over three years only, I relate to the fatigue of the generation of my parents, especially the ones who moved from lower to middle class. After looking at different working environments and pay situation, I no longer wonder why our fathers used to be such angry, secluded, frustrated, sad beings. It is a blood bath out here. Everyday, everywhere. At some places, quite literally, at others, the cuts and bruises and the bleedings are all internal and invisible, and hence, virtually, not there at all.
It is an absolute shame though. That the post modernists writers had existential crisis after witnessing a most brutal, global war, and here I am, along with many others I believe, gearing myself up to dive into the existential dread because of a major fuck up by the civilisation in form of the ten-hour work day culture in an environment that is not even fit to breathe, let alone think.
