Monotony and the self.

Just write something, she said. I believe in you, Mama.

But what is there to write when day in and day out is monotony? Granted, the most meaningful monotony of my entire existence, but monotony just the same.

This is my first post in 2012, since November to be clear, and it is, so far, worthless. How do you write about each day when each day looks exactly the same as the last? How do you write about the feelings when the feelings never change, a veritable roller-coaster in grey. Things are sunny, things are dark but ultimately they are all the same. Get up. Milk. Breakfast. Milk. Playtime. Milk. Groceries. Milk. Lunch. Milk. Nap-time. Milk Milk Milk. Clean clean clean. Cook cook cook.

Is he walking yet? Is he talking yet? Is he a super-star rock n' roll basketball hero yet?

I remember when I used to be creative, but not vividly. I remember it like I remember looking at a powerful photograph, not as though I was really there. I remember when I used to feel that my art meant something. To me, mostly, and maybe to other people, too.

What is a blog for, is it for me? A space to be honest about who I am to a world of people who only wish to tear me down silently behind their computer screens? Or is it a space for me to harp about the parenting choices I make, subsequently making other people question their own monotonous existence? If it is meant to be a space to connect, how do I feel so disconnected? Compared to everyone else at all times.


The other day I realised something again, but for the first time. We are nothing, all of us. We are specs of nothing on the grand scheme of nothingness. This is very freeing, as it means I can do anything I want, I can make any choice I'd like to make. I have only me, I can only control myself. No one else is working to make me happy. No one.

I have begun to consciously choose selfishness. But only when the little one is sleeping.