I haven't felt this level of absolute apathy for a long time. Years, I imagine. Maybe since before I came back to Omaha from CA the first time. Or maybe I felt it those first few months after I got here. I don't remember. I don't much like it, feeling this way, that much I'm sure of, but I can say with the utmost certainty that I have no idea how to get myself out of this, whatever "this" is.
I don't know when this current funk, for lack of a better word, began. I don't recall feeling this way while I was in L.A. this summer. Perhaps I was simply too busy, too exhausted every day, to feel much of anything. It's safe to say that this probably began after the current semester started, but I'd be hard-pressed to point to a specific cause. Calling it "senioritis" is too simplistic.
It's not only classes that I've grown disinterested in, but the mundaneness of life in general, here. I suppose this could be because I don't do anything besides drive to and from campus five days a week, while on the weekends I sit around not doing school work. I spend the majority of my time reading and watching TV. Some news, so that I don't feel completely out of touch with the world. In fact, I would hazard a guess and say that I'm one of the most well-informed people I know. Of course, I don't know very many people these days, do I?
The majority of my time is spent escaping into fiction. Novels, comics, TV shows and movies. Part of me rationalizes this by claiming that I'm studying, doing research on the fields in which I'm most interested in working. This is not entirely untrue. In order to learn how to tell stories, one must read and watch stories. I like to think that every show I watch, every novel or comic I read, I'm doing so actively, rather than passively. I'm absorbing the tricks of those who have come before, so that I may add them to my repertoire.
This is, almost assuredly, bullshit.
What good is studying an art form that one wishes to emulate without actually attempting to emulate it? In truth, I seem to have devolved to my pre-CA mindset, in which I simply don't care. About anything. Which is most definitely not a good sign.
Anyway, I see that it's time for Torchwood, on the BBC. I'll be back later.
The aforementioned are distractions, of course, to which I easily allow myself to succumb. Distractions from what, I suppose, is the question. From school, I guess, though, truth be told, I never needed much of a distraction to keep me from doing homework. That always came naturally, the procrastination.
There are other distractions as well, aside from the stories into which I escape. There is a distinct lack of quiet around the house, which is certainly no one's fault. It's a home. People live here, visit here. Nieces and nephews sleep over. Grandmothers fall asleep on couches. There's arguing and yelling, a constant background din, from which there truly is no escape. Not within the walls of the house, that is. But where else am I to go? A library, perhaps, or a coffee house. But surely I can find myself as easily distracted there as here, so why not stay here and be distracted in familiarity and comfort.
Maybe the stories, be they books or television, distract me from the greater distractions of the household. While I cannot concentrate enough to research a paper or write a story, it takes far less effort to read a novel or watch a DVD.
I find myself wondering what the point of it all is, especially when I see my grandmother lose her mind as she seems to be doing, forgetting people, family, her own son. Life is a journey, however, not a destination. Just because we may reach a point where we cannot remember who we are or what we've done is no reason not to live.
There's a line from Star Trek: The Next Generation, from the cybernetic species, the Borg, that goes, "Resistance is futile," referring to the notion that conformity leads to a better world for everyone. Lately I've come to think of it as, "Existence is futile," meaning that existing in the world is not the same thing as living in it, experiencing it. To merely exist without the experience is not truly living. Yet that seems to be what I'm doing, existing. Taking up space, wasting oxygen, wasting time.
I need to get back to living my life instead of being an innocent bystander in it. I'm afraid, however, that I can't remember how, if I ever knew...