A mind filled with crap

During the first half of my life I valued experiences far more than things. Get out into the world and engage. Hike the mountains, run the rivers, drive the highways, swim the oceans and eat, drink and dance the cultures of the country.

Fatherhood supplanted that trend, but only in practice not in spirit. Now it was my kids who needed the experiences: beach combing, berry picking, lizard catching, exploring, experimenting, creating.

And then that phase, too, passed.

Sure, I watched my share of TV, enjoyed a movie now and then and read a ton of novels. But time spent passively consuming life paled in comparison to actual participation.

This is no longer the case.

Even without a pandemic constricting real-life involvement, the trend has been to fill one’s time with other’s experiences. Binging episodic entertainment has replaced empirical existence, hands-on living. I find myself turned into a submissive slug, my mind filled with inane garbage pumped from the likes of my media masters.

Years ago I predicted that humanity would never reach the stars, never travel to other worlds. Why? Because a virtual life was so much easier to endure. Let the “influencers” (organic or AI) risk life and limb. I’ll just jack in and let my mind be fooled into thinking I’m actually living a life well lived.

This morning I woke up, not thinking of my own existence, but that of the characters I’d been mainlining—an insidious entertainment epidural—my mind filled with crap, no room for my own thoughts.

Courtesy: Pixabay.com

Five to Five

Is it just me or has life become a singular struggle to get from one 5PM clock strike, to the next one the following day?

No, it’s not quite five yet. Four thirty-two to be exact. As you can tell, I’m counting.

Weekends are the worst. Weekdays I’m regulated by the fact that I’m physically not in possession of an inebriation inducing intoxicant. I walk to and from work. When I arrive home—yup, at approximately 5:00:00 PM, I head straight for the bottle. Am I sick? Probably. Do I care? Fuck no.

So what? It’s the grind. The slog. The dirge that I march to for hours, days, years on end. It wears me out. A shot and a beer (a quality beer, mind you) and I’m fine. For an hour or two. And then the clock starts ticking again…

On the weekends, I force myself to hold the floodgates back until the appointed moment when the Fred Flintstone whistle would have blown, had this been a Monday, or a Friday. It’s the least I can do.

When is your five o’clock? Do you have one? What pleasure do you restrain from, building the anticipation until it’s just too much to take?