There’s nothing like a famous death to give you an existential crisis. I’ve spent the last few weeks unashamedly marathoning the first eight seasons of How I Met Your Mother, despite having seen all of it before and not really paying attention. The only reason I haven’t bothered chasing it with Season 9 is because that’s not on Netflix yet, but if it was, that would’ve easily been another three or four evenings of my life sapped right out of me.
Like my Netflix list isn’t already overflowing with box sets I’m yet to see. Like my external hard drive doesn’t still contain acclaimed films that I unscrupulously “acquired” during my University days. Heck, I still haven’t even watched Labyrinth. You know it’s a sad state of affairs when you’re arbitrarily putting off seeing a film where David Bowie is essentially the King of the Muppets. It’s an even sadder state when it takes the bloke’s passing to actually get you to watch it.
So what am I actually filling up this life with? Sitting around? Watching the same stuff I’ve watched. Listening to the same stuff I’ve listened to. Walking the same patches of land over and over. But for all my moaning, I don’t actually do anything to break out of it. I have opportunities: other places to go, other things to see, other projects to work on. I’ve got a bloody kitchen just several steps away and I still don’t bother to cook any more. I cooked things lots when I was a student. And I’m not just talking Pot Noodles and mouldy onions.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my drive to do anything. Ironic, really, considering I’ve spent the best part of a year practicing to drive. Fairly soon, instead of walking those same roads, I’ll be able to drive down them. Until then, I just have to make do with the fact that not fully locking in the handbrake when parking on a hill can fail an otherwise exemplary test. Once I do have licence to roam the roads, though, chances are I’ll ditch plans to visit further afield friends and initiate spontaneous day trips, and stick to my recent routine of generally doing fuck all.
I suppose there’s an element of psychology in there; I feel a bit stifled right now. In previous years, I’ve had singular, non-busy friends nearby to spend time with. I’ve lived independently. I’ve never needed to go more than twenty minutes’ walk away to do anything remotely entertaining or important. But over the last eighteen months, I have coupled friends not nearby and rightly getting on with their own shit. I live alongside parents, almost regressing to the stage of pre-teen, wherein they make me dinner and, in return, I be a moody little shit. Anything remotely entertaining (like friendly human contact) or important (like work) is a considerable commute away, thus making me feel like shit.
And since the record hasn’t changed in a year and a half, I’m actually starting to get comfortable with it. It’s like if Stockholm Syndrome was less hostage-y capture-y and more passive normality. I fear that I’ve literally forgotten what it’s like to have fun and even be fun, simply because I haven’t or been for a while.
Strangely, settling into that sense of comfort actually feels nice. It’s been a long time since I’ve been “comfortable”, not bound by any pressures put upon me by others or myself. I’m just floating through, getting on with nothing and only occasionally moaning about it. But as much as I’m feeling content with things as they are now, what’s to stop me from looking back on this period of my life later on down the road and thinking how much time I wasted?
Chances are that’ll most likely happen. After years of thinking several things and actioning none of them, I’m going to become the very thing none of us want to be, yet the vast majority slip into anyway. Should I ever come to have children in this lifetime, sitting them down to share stories of my mid-twenties in sitcom format will be almost as pointless as marathoning a TV programme I’ve marathoned numerous times before.
Besides, my storytelling would probably just get cancelled after the pilot anyway.
On Monday, every other song they played on the radio came from David Bowie. Of course it did. What else were you expecting, Ms. Dynamite?
Admittedly, I’ve never religiously followed the man’s music, but the recent release of Blackstar prompted me to spend some time at the weekend entertaining the thought of going through his back catalogue. I still haven’t started; you know me, I’m brilliant at putting things off. But I’ll get to it… eventually.
For now, I’ve been torn over which of two tracks to throw here. It was a toss up between the classic that made me nearly cry all five times it came on the other day, or the more recent experimental jazz offering that spookily ponders his own mortality and ultimate death. You’ve probably heard Life On Mars? often enough.
David Bowie – Lazarus
“Look up here, I’m in heaven…”
Jamie Walsh 
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