A week ago I was arriving in London for my mini adventures in friendship and photography. Physically I’m still recovering from the exertion, emotionally I’m still trying to make sense of the complexity of reactions my time in the capital invoked.
The positives are easy to pinpoint. My soul is always enriched by reconnection with old friends while there is inspiration in even the most passive experience of artistic projects. And spending time in new surroundings is exciting as well as helping to refresh the senses when back home. Most of all, setting bigger goals than going to the grocery store and then achieving those goals lifts the spirits and reminds me not to be defined by my health issues all the time.
However, spending time with old friends can lead to rumination on the ways in which they are better at living life than I am. Being part of somebody’s artistic project reminds me of how small scale my own creative activities are and how incapable I am of generating income from them.
Yeah, yeah, comparisons with others isn’t healthy or wise. We are all individuals, all unique. Which is bordering on Fight Club snowflake territory, isn’t it? It’s hard not to feel as though my entire life is a lesson in potential unfulfilled. If I were younger and fitter I’d do what I used to do: stick out a thumb, buy a bus ticket to anywhere, keep on moving and hope the nagging sound of my disappointment with myself will be mostly drowned out by the next town, the next party, the next song written, the next batch of powerful narcotics.
Not an option these days; my vagabond soul has to content itself with more carefully planned and more sporadic adventures. Which means I get to spend way too much time alone listening to that nagging disappointment. And complaining about it all to those who read my blog. You’re welcome.