And this is just a really bad time of year anyway, when I'd prefer to retreat from the world for a bit. Of all the milestones at this time of year, I suppose the one that I'm most willing to discuss is the 8th of October, which this year marked 11 years since I left New Zealand for Australia. I love Melboutne, but I miss my hometown. I love all the conveniences of Melbourne, the tram network and everything, but whenever I walk outside in the midst of bland inner suburbia, I wonder why the fuck I'm not still in a beautiful and quieter part of the planet. I mean, Australia is an ugly country, generally speaking. Yet I'm in no hurry to move back to New Zealand. All I really want is to be able to walk out my door and photograph beautiful things, not ugly edifices to sixties architectural uncreativity on just another faceless, nameless suburban street. Seriously, if I didn't love Melbourne so much, I would be so depressed living in the quasi-shoebox I live in now. As it is, it just makes me feel a bit down around this time of year.
So, you know, here I am, sitting at a computer at nearly 2am on a Monday morning, ranting much more openly and honestly than I normally do on a blog I prefer to use for detached commentary about serious issues rather than inconsequential and trivial things such as emotions. I mean, nobody cares about how I feel or what I did today or what I ate for dinner or whatever other useless shit I could potentially write. That's fluffy conversational junk that I can prattle on about in the Superthread on Interference, should the topics come up. The entire point of having a blog, at least to me, is to write things on worthwhile topics. Things that matter in life, like politics, theology, and history. And some music, because I do not consider life worth living without music. Life is an intellectual exercise. I know I am a very serious person who takes being very serious very seriously. But like a life without music, a life that is not an intellectual exercise just is not worth living. I'm quite happy to be lost inside my mind. Fundamentally, what is felt generally does not matter, usually only what is thought. So why I'm worrying about what I feel, I don't know. I don't know why I sometimes feel lonely, because it doesn't fucking matter. I don't know why I'm sometimes nostalgic, because it doesn't fucking matter one jot, and it sure as hell isn't going to change anything. It's not that I'm unfeeling, it's just that I wish I was. As it stands, I feel all too much and it has never offered me much gain at all. All I have left are senses of loss and longing. I've been fairly cheerful by my standards these last few months, but I suppose things are inevitably going to have their low points and I've damn well hit one this evening.
God, what a complete load of drivel.