purpose

this is what kills me.

one of my earliest memories was sitting at the kitchen table doing a drawing, crayons and pencils, and a picture of rabbits playing tennis.

and halfway through, this chill went through me. why was was i doing this? what was the purpose, apart from the fun i was getting, of doing this drawing?  it would rot away with time - the acidic paper would fade (of course, not knowing much about acid in paper when i was 7, my understanding of exactly how and why it would rot was limited).. and even if someone did love it, or it did sell, or whatever, well... then what's the point?

this really only proves i was a fucked up kid.
but this still plagues me hideously. it's friday night, and i should be relaxing. instead, i am wracked with guilt, and want to do something 'Meaningful' with my night. and then, it turns into this nasty sort of pattern - what is meaningful? what is pleasure? what do i want to do? what book should i choose? what would be the purpose though, of reading it if i didn't write about it, or reflect on it, or discuss it, or at least feel like i had been enriched by it. and even, were i to do that, what meaning does that give me? 

essentially, i reduce it all back, and i come to a very nihilistic sort of place, where nothing ends up having any sort of meaning. 

and this is all because it's a friday night and i am trying to pick between reading Gunter Grass and a novel about a guy who really liked The Smiths as a teenager. OH or writing something about my teen novels. or working. or. or, or... or....... what the fuck?


this is why i have the tattoo on my arm. to remind me of the circles and the patterns and to remember that this nihilism is something that's haunted me for as long as i can recall, and that no matter where i go, nothing is just behind and in front of me, because nothing is all i can honestly believe in.