I think existence is pointless. I think mortality and an understanding of scale renders human endeavour meaningless. I think humanity is a bunch of delusional animals obsessed with distracting themselves from the fact that we’re living lives that dont matter in a universe that doesnt care. I’m a lazy, nihilistic coward. On a good day. Unsurprisingly this is not a cocktail which helps generate a lot of motivation. I have started a million different things, but eight hours later when I wake up they never happen. I have not and cannot catch up to tomorrow’s Michael. Who isn’t obsessed and terrified by his own morality and the grim meaningless of it all. Even the false immortality offered by atrocity is tempting at times only I’m a) lazy and b) why should I inflict my misery on others? Anyway even that would pass in time, “Nothing beside remains”. Then on other days I don’t think and I’m not those things.
I know I have to have a career. Not just because society dictates it but becasue economic reality dictates it. I need money to live (what a vile statement). If I have to have a career then I want it to be something meaningful – in this case by meaningful I mean something wherin I produce (but despite my blue collar origins I’m talking works of the mind, gotta preserve my soft hands). I spend far too much time consuming, I want to produce something. Even though I’m largely entirely convinced that such production is pointless. Lecturing (aka what I’m doing at the moment) is fine. Actually it’s probably the best job I’ve had so far. But it feels ultimately too passive. I create nothing. Teaching people brings me no particular joy or satisfaction. I was simultaneously pursuing a PhD, because if you want to get ahead in academia you need one. But do I want to get ahead in academia? I no longer really think so. So that and a number of other (much more pressing to be honest) factors lead to me meeting with my supervisor today to quit my PhD. But because my supervisor is a genuinely nice person I’ve instead taken a break. Taking three to four months out to see if I really want to quit. I have rarely felt as much of a cunt as I did during that meeting.
So now I’m looking for a job, in the games industry, preferably as a games designer i.e. a job that is more or less impossible to step into without working your way up. I do not fancy starting from the bottom at the ripe old age of 33. But I dont have a lot of choice here. And lack of choice I find to be, constraining, shall we say. My childish response is generally to ignore it and do something else. But in the words of my good friend JC I must now put aside childish things.
So here’s the plan – work on my indie game idea until the new year. At that point I will have to decide whether to continue my PhD or take up an opportunity offered by an old acquaintance for an entry level position. In the meantime I shall apply for game jobs with great gusto.
But here’s the thing I will likely need to move, not just from the grey vale of tears that is Dundalk but from this splendid isle itslef. Which is scary, which brings me back to being a coward. I have, often, but not always let my fear of, hmm, what? Failure? the mundane unknown? unduly influence my decisions. I would like that to end. But secretly fear it wont.
The worst thing about being a part-time nihilist is that when you pull yourself out of the dark fugue of pointlessness and depression you often find that you’ve made a bit of a balls of your life. Which we (though I’m hoping in a hundred years I can update that we to you) only get one off. So why bother doing anything? Why not simply indulge yourself in whatever makes you happy? Because when you die it’s not going to matter a fuck anyway. That question often haunts me. Existential angst is a pile of unpleasant bollocks.