Do we ever really know what we want? Do we ever really know who we are? To what depths must we sink before we notice we’re drowning, how far must we fall before we can see the bottom, and how long will it take us to realise we were pushed? 

There’s no meaning to it all, and those who go looking for one are foolishly naive. Anyone who claims they know the answer is either deluded or seeks to profit from you, and that goes for those who claim to know god, since those who believe it’s all part of some grand plan prepared by a higher power are either wilfully deluded or even more unashamedly profit seeking than those who claim to have answer themselves. It’s all a result of chance, the product of a series of events that are impossible to understand and will never be repeated, and as such no explanation can truly satisfy the questions we ask, no priest nor scientist can reveal the secret of it all, because there isn’t one, it just is, and that’s that. 

So what do we do? If we can’t know ourselves, then what’s the point? Well, that’s up to you, is it not? Perhaps you could join the Communist Party? I hear it’s back in fashion these days. Or take up golf? That seems to be popular. Why not both? I hear that having children can be quite rewarding, especially if you hate your partner. It’s simple really, you find a reasonably well paying white-collar job, find someone amicable to marry, buy a house, have three kids, take two holidays a year, one to Spain and one to Greece, and wait forty years until you have to sell the house to pay for your social care because the Tories have been in power for a decade, your kids hate you and you can’t remember your own name. Failing that, find a small flat to rent somewhere and spend every weekend getting drunk with other people who also insist that they’re happy being single when, quite clearly, they’re not, and neither are you. 

I jest. Or do I? Who knows. I think the point I am trying to make is that there is no fucking point, which sounds negative but is actually incredibly freeing. The expectations placed on you by your demanding parents to ‘succeed’? Irrelevant. What does success mean anyway if your wife is a bitch? Divorce her and move on. Are the attractive, young influencers you see on Instagram making you feel bad about your body? Delete it, it’s just a fucking app. Either that or join a gym. You might as well delete Facebook too, because who really gives a shit what that annoying girl you went to school with is doing in Spain with her ugly kids. Is your boss annoying you and putting too much on your plate? Tell him to fuck off. You’ll get sacked, but Artificial Intelligence is probably going to make you redundant soon anyway, so why not go on benefits for a bit whilst you figure out whether you want to be a professional photographer or a masseuse, neither of which can be replaced by AI just yet, so you should be safe for now. Make sure you pay your credit cards off though, and make sure you set up a private pension pot if you’re going to be self-employed. Actually, switch to a 0% balance transfer card if you can, that will give you a bit of breathing space. 

Take pictures of things that look pretty and go on long walks, wondering what might have been. Read books that make you question your principles and beliefs, and write poetry that makes you question your reading age. Watch old movies that everyone reveres as classics but are actually just old, and then learn how to play chess, and then inevitably lose to someone better than you at chess. Go skinny dipping in a lake with a friend that you’re far too comfortable around, or visit that coffee shop you like and spend an afternoon pretending to read whilst you people watch. Take a friend for dinner, or ask them to take you for dinner, or cook them dinner, or ask them to cook you dinner, or just go to the pub and get so pissed that you forget to eat, and then wake up the next morning having forgotten how you got home. Go for a run, realise how shit running is and then bake yourself a cake. See if you can find some cheap vintage clothing at the charity shop, and then plan a holiday to Rome to take pictures of yourself wearing it for Instagram, since you refused to delete it despite my instructions, as you cannot be told what to do. 

Either that or sit at home scrolling TikTok and wishing you were dead. Your choice I guess.

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