I watch the news every day, and every day I hope for more bad news. I miss the bad news. I had gotten used to it – accustomed to whatever neurochemical reaction set off in my brain every time I was reminded that the world might fall to fascism or disease. It was like my morning coffee – it got me going. It got me up. It got me ready to sit in the house all day and ignore all my phone calls and text messages.
But now. Now, there is no bad news. Or, there’s not enough. It’s always far away and unfamiliar. That impending sense of doom has faded away, and now I’m left here, by myself, with my regular job and my regular life, navigating my way through the crisis of not being in crisis.
I hate it. All of a sudden, I have lost my sense of purpose. Now that I’m no longer merely surviving the terrors of modern living, I am being forced to face what it was I would truly do with my time and who I would truly be if things weren’t so bad. Things aren’t so bad, and I am fucking bored. That’s who I am: a bored, privileged woman in a condo, on the Internet. All those “if onlys” – if only things were different, I would be better, if things were better, I’d do this – have melted away, and I am not better, and I’m not doing all the things I said I would do.
Burn it down. I would like to burn it down, because if I am staring lovingly into the hell fire of the world around me, then I’m not standing here, gazing at myself in the mirror, and wondering why the fuck I am filled with lies and disappointment. I crave crisis, because with crisis there is the possibility that I will be a hero. Without crisis, I am just here, and that means that there’s nothing very remarkable or interesting about me, is there?