I am not really searching for ants. Most of the ants are gone. Or at least, I think they are.
See, the ants keep coming back every couple of days or so, or maybe even once a week or two. I keep thinking I’ve killed the last of them. At first I didn’t bother to kill them, because they are just ants. An ant never harmed a soul, or if they did, I haven’t heard of it.
But come now, there’s a limit.
No, I am not searching for ants but I am anticipating their return. Somehow they always return. I don’t understand it, but they creep in, creeping in and bringing their picnics with them, and damn if I know how to find all of their hidden entrances.
But I am sitting here with my wife. We watched a little TV but now she is complaining of a headache. Why do women always get headaches? I don’t know many men who get them.
Maybe women get headaches because of men?
I guess I will put her to bed soon. What then? I do not want to listen to her complaining. I would much rather talk to her or do something meaningful, but she is not so much for conversation.
I love her very much. It is a “missing” sort of love.
She’d better sleep. But I know I am going to stay up. Stay up with my own company. Drink a screwdriver? Read a book? Probably both. Today is my Friday but I don’t really know what that means anymore.
Anymore. God. How many times do I say that?
I need a diversion–Christ, I’m so bored I could die. Not bored with life only, that’s bad enough, but bored with myself. I don’t find my own company especially desirable. I get tired of listening to the thoughts in my head: stupid thoughts now, not clever like they used to be. Not fun, not myself.
We create our identities through our relation to others. Some people don’t know that, but it’s true. To know what you are you’ve got to know what you aren’t. We create ourselves through conversation, through language, that’s the only way to define something. If we couldn’t talk then we couldn’t think–at least, not in the way we understand thinking. You take Helen Keller, before she learned to communicate, she stumbled about in the darkness and didn’t know doodley squat. She didn’t know what she was because she didn’t know who others were. Our relation to others is all we’ve got: all, perhaps, that makes us human in the first place. Too far? Maybe so. But I can’t put my finger on the error.
So that’s why I’m bored, you see, and that is why I’m not myself, is because I am alone. Not in some romantic or tragic sense but in a lazy, bored, watching TV sort of way. I’m not really interacting anymore, at least not in the way I’d like to. And I’m not reading for pleasure and I’ve stopped writing stories and I drink. I drink and watch TV. And hope and pray that I’ll fall into some stupid slumber, some stupid slump that will distract me from the horror of existing–of just “existing.”
I’m going to write, because it stimulates my mind. Or it will, I suppose, if I can do it enough. I can’t numb my brain no matter how much alcohol and television I try to drown it in. It keeps on running. I can’t shut it up like I want to, I can’t distract it, not all the way.
So I’ll try and let it be free. And see where it goes.