What Am I Doing!?

Monday the tenth of November two-thousand fourteen. thirteen-oh-nine in the afternoon.

What am i doing?

Derek and the Dominoes (Eric Clapton) – Layla is now spinning.

I just cracked open a 440ml can of Carlsberg. Because that’s what i do. I sit at home, listening to music, drinking beer wondering just what the fuck happened.

I spend a lot of my disposable income on vinyl. I guess i like to think that it makes me happy. But then i wonder why i don’t have much money saved away and i say to myself “Next month you’ll put some away”. I’ve been saying that for years, and every month i find something to spend my money on. And in the first week after getting paid, i realise that i’m not going to be saving anything. Then i just procrastinate for the next three and a bit weeks.

I take pictures of my record collection, as i play them, and post them to instagram. I guess it makes me fell connected in some way to other people who like the same thing. Music. Vinyl.

You know i’m thirty-seven years old and have accomplished absolutely nothing. My P60 this year (A P60 in the UK details your earning and tax contributions over the last financial year, in this case 2013-2014), i’d earned £17,000. That’s it. 17 grand…. I’m thirty-seven years old and i’m earning 17 grand a year. And my managers wonder why i’m miserable and depressed. I look at that and think “Is this it? Is this my life. Has it come to this, earning 17k a year in a job i don’t even like” Of course the answer is yes.

But why?

Because i have nothing. No qualifications, or experience to do anything else. I’ve been stuck in security for the last ten years and i can’t help but feel like the world and my life are just passing my by, waving out the back window of a shabby run down old bus travelling down a dirt road in Western Mongolia. Good bye world. Good bye life. Thank you for your time but i don’t have the balls to join you in you adventures. I’ma just sit here on this rock and wait for something to happen.

thirteen years later. I’m fifty. And i’m still sitting on that rock. Which, as it turns out isn’t in Mongolia, but in my Mum’s back garden. I’ve been sitting there for the last thirteen years waiting. Waiting for something or something to come along and say “You coming, dude”. But they something or someone never came. And as i look at the faded red brick house with new extension, i realise that i haven’t been sitting here, on this rock for thirteen years. But thirty-seven. Watching the planes flying over head, wondering who’s on it, and where could they be going. Off on some adventure or just home after that adventure to see their loved ones.

And still, here i sit. On my rock. Waving them by, “It’s okay, really, i’ll wait here”.

I like to be candid with myself, i hope that it will get me off my rock. But it never does. And soon, the over riding thought of continuing this life on it’s current path will spiral my into a depression. My life + What i wish + my job = depression.

Yet another wasted Monday.

Yet another wasted week.

Yet another wasted month.

Yet another wasted year.

What a wasted life.

What’s the point i wonder. I’m not asking you to tell me the meaning of life, or for some other philosophical bullshit. I’m not a believer in that notion that we are all here for a single purpose. Or that there is any kind of meaning to us. But have you ever wanted to be more then what you are. Because i cant’ see the point of moving forward as i am.

What am i?

A thirty-seven years old man earning 17k a year working a job he hates, in an industry he hates, for people he hates. I’m the first up in the morning, the first out the door, i travel the furthest to work, i get home a good two hours after every one else, and i earn the least. And all i’m told when i want to talk about this to the family is “It’s a job, you get paid, you got bills to pay”.

In my family liking your job is irrelevant. It’s about paying the bills not enjoying yourself. Well, all i can say to that is:

“This life is going to be the end of me”.

Either it’ll kill me, or i will. I mean, what’s the point of working a job that depresses you.

But is it really the job that depresses me?

Partly i think. but not solely. The fact that i do nothing about it is worse. I waste my days off drinking beer and listening to music because those two things make me feel good. And at least for those two days i can forget my miserable life.

Yes i’m will aware that there are people in this world that have it worse then i do, but i can’t speak for or to them, now can i. I can only speak for myself. But where those people have no power to changed their lives. I DO have the power to change mine, yet i do not. Why is that?

Fear.

The fear of the unknowable. Where’s is that shabby run down old bus going.

Knowledge.

I don’t have the necessary knowledge to do the things i wish i could.

And without the knowledge comes the fear of the unknown…

Suicide.

Yes, it has crossed my mind. Not in a “I need to end it all because i can’t go on” despairing way. But more a “What’s the point in moving forward in this endless, boring, tedious way” kind of way. I see that this life is wasted on me and i should just dive off that cliff, or under that shubby run down old bus in Mongolia.

Monday the tenth of November two-thousand fourteen. fourteen-oh-four in the afternoon.

I have work tomorrow. And don’t for one second think that i want you pity or sympathy. This is just stuff i felt i needed to say to myself. Again.

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