It is five to seven on a Thursday evening and I am lying in bed, naked, whilst listening to Radio Three and wishing it was acceptable to smoke inside. It happens to be Bonfire Night, although personally I’ve never really bought into the idea, as I think paying to watch some pretty explosions in the sky whilst standing outside in a cold, muddy field is a bit boring and somewhat anticlimactic.

You might perhaps judge me for being in bed so early, but fuck you, who are you to judge me? I’m joking of course, you can judge me all you like, I don’t really care, it’s a free country. I do feel the fact that I am naked is quite important though, for can you ever truly relax while clothed? I don’t think so, they inhibit full relaxation in my opinion, a cage for the body, in much the same way having to have a job is a cage for my mind. Oh to be a wealthy aristocrat in ancient Athens.

I finished reading How to Be Idle by Tom Hodgkinson earlier today, which I found rather interesting and a timely reminder that one must not exert oneself too much in life. I have recently resubscribed to The Idler, the magazine that Hodgkinson produces, to make sure I keep in touch with my idle instincts. The idea of being an idler aligns quite well with my outlook and values, and is something I will be making an active effort to incorporate more into my life moving forward.

I continue fighting in the possibly never-ending battle against smartphones and scrolling. I think I have the upper hand at the minute, but I still feel myself yearning for my phone when I don’t have it, a feeling which utterly disgusts me. It’s almost definitely a FOMO thing I think, as the only app I have on my phone that comes remotely close to social media is WhatsApp, and that is arguably just a simple instant messaging service, but even then, what if I put my phone down for a bit and someone messages me a hilarious meme, or some important news, or a picture of their cock? Perhaps they’ve somehow combined all three? I detest the way in which my mind seems to focus on nothing except when we might get our next message, our next little buzz of dopamine, it is pathetic, and I dearly, sincerely miss my dumb phone, but it is impossible to live in a city like London without a smartphone these days, which is in itself a terribly depressing fact. Don’t even get me started on the relentlessness of AI.

I’ve just been to make myself a cup of tea, which meant having to put shorts on, because I live in a house share, which is annoying, but they’re straight back off again now I’m safely back in my room, so no bother really. I have almost entirely lost my creative spark since moving to London. I still have the urge and desire to write, yet can’t seem to bring myself to actually do so. It’s a big change and is taking a while to get used to, so I am trying not to be too harsh on myself, but I really should make more of an effort. Writing, for me at least, is a bit like going to the gym – you always feel better about yourself after doing it, and you know it doesn’t have to be perfect every time, even 20 minutes is better than nothing, yet you still can’t bring yourself to get up and do it. Oh well, hopefully the spark will come back in time.

I shouldn’t really compare it to the gym, as I’m actually doing quite well with my exercise regime at the minute, and would even go as far as to say I am actively enjoying it! In fact, I’d go even further and say that I have noticed I actually now feel worse if I don’t go to the gym, both physically and mentally, which is surely a good sign. I’ve even hired an extortionately priced personal trainer, both because I want to improve my physical health and feel good about myself, but also because Lewis is having a pool party as part of his wedding celebrations next year, and I’ll be fucked if I’m going to look like a fat slob in front of all their guests.

I wonder if the problem is that, ultimately, I have no idea what would make me happy. Sure, I could write a list of material things I would purchase upon receipt of my lottery winnings, but that, I’m sure, would soon get tiring. What do I actually want? Perhaps it’s freedom, more than anything, the ability to do whatever I want, whenever I want to do it. Quite unfortunate, therefore, that having lots of money seems to be the only way to get that these days, but I guess that’s just a fact of life in this late-stage capitalist hellscape.

Bored now.

Postscript: I just put this into ChatGPT, because I’m always curious what our future overlords have to say, and as much as I hate to admit it, it did actually produce something I quite like – “It’s almost as though the phone has become a little portal through which you expect life to arrive, rather than something you use to facilitate the life you’re already living”. Almost profound, if it wasn’t complete bullshit made up by an algorithm.