Documenting an anxiety of nothing in general

what is it,

they ask,

that bothers you?

It is nothing... it is always that nothing. 

Yes, I know it is outdated and all, to still get existential, to still wonder about the meanings, the emptiness, the nausea. The eng-lit. college graduate existential anxiety should saturate into matured and practiced cynicism by now, no? Still, it is a daily ritual for me to wake up and wonder the why, the what, the before, the after! In fact, today I spent the late morning stuck to the bed, just wondering. Yes, it is a privilege to have this kind of time at hand (but, in my defense it stems from my line of work), to not be forced to do anything, and I agree that it may not even be an option for many and even for me at most times. But the fact remains I do it at times and use it to introspect. It is mentally exhausting, it is frustrating. It continues till it lasts, then it continues again.

What bothers me is that there is no space for this kind of expression. We are so surrounded by the "quantifiable" (I borrow from a friend) that this just slips through the cracks. Would an emoticon saying "Feeling existential" do the trick? I hope not, as with this optional data, another limit would be imposed. One would still choose between the choice of this or that. It is no longer about sadness, hurt, etc. It is about that realization that your voice does not get registered anywhere, there are no witnesses, there is only you, surrounded by a sea of nothingness! I can already feel people's patience wearing thin, it sits on the nape of my neck ready to crack into a "That's enough about this man, there are so many other kinds of suffering that are more real" Anyhow, I shall attempt to brave that nasty perched up beast and still rant as this suffering makes me me and I choose to speak about something I know. We keep ourselves surrounded with people, things, distractions so as to avoid this realization. The spaces around us leave no scope for this. Yes, I make it spatial, as for me certain spaces allow for expressions/introspection like this, while most don’t. Perhaps a bus ride, or a train journey, when am forced to be with my thoughts would be one. But, then again distractions colonize all spaces.

The fact of the matter is that while we are surrounded by the excess of meanings, which explode everywhere, infest everything... I feel that there is no space where one can talk about meaninglessness. Maybe, the ones who read this don’t think so, but here I intend to communicate an anxiety that has been tormenting me for some time. It is an anxiety that has no higher purpose, is completely pedestrian, and faces the danger of being elitist. This anxiety defines much of what I do and how I conduct myself. It is an anxiety that no matter what I do, in the landscape of things that matter, it wont make any dent. Perhaps because I don’t think it matters enough, and also because the things that seem to matter are so much out of reach. The question hangs perpetually: Does it count?

The fact that I do realize that nothing matters and still go on attempting to make meanings out of that deep knowing, is what remains as something to wonder at. Or perhaps, jumping from one stone to another, one simply avoids the water in between.

But, maybe it is just me, as I wonder at the absence of doubt, at the practiced cynicism that blurts out "aisa hi hota hai", at the inane yet deep desire that someone notices that little status message disguised in abstraction. I myself feel burdened by the expectation of writing something moving, something that gets itself noticed, something that makes one visible, but refuse to be a slave to that practice. Yes, this means that I experience self-imposed seclusion, but I feel limited by the time-slot interactions, the prescribed response application, imposition of acceptable social conduct.

Anyhow, am also trying to get rid of the rust of not writing about this, and hiding behind poems where I merely touch upon this constant anxiety, but I wonder at the absence of such voices around me. It is curious that while people can say they are sad or lost, very few would dare to admit that they are lonely. One would disguise it behind valentine's day disgust at card companies, but the question remains, with no dearth of social interaction facilitators, are we becoming more lonely? Loss manifests itself into an external entity, where one attributes all its misgivings, but loss stems from another place within. We struggle to fill it, nurture it, and become governed by it. A loss of companionship devastates so much, not because you lose someone, but because our minds and bodies behave as if a part has been chopped off. This phantom limb haunts the best of us, but I wonder at its appropriation as a weakness. In the gold rush towards finding someone/something, the idea of the self gets defined as being empty. It’s the sub-text that no one talks about. It is that lack that the entities governing us, impose on us, and we impose on ourselves, that I get anxious with. Perhaps I should be stronger and more averse, but I again wonder at the incomplete selves. It may not be finding a companion, but work or family can be seen as the completing factors. It is a myth of our times, the individual, who remains a fragmented entity trying desperately to fit somewhere perfectly. One acknowledges the suffering, then makes peace with it and then continues with life. But, life’s importance remains unquestioned. The only good enough reason I see to not terminate it is that it will end someday anyway.

Among other things, I acknowledge today an anxiety that seems to inflict me, as I struggle to find a way of expression to some of the things that I observe and experience. Conflicted I am, between trying to move away from the desire to have witnesses, to writing and expressing to audiences. But, it is this contradiction that leads to this anxiety that I am talking about. Being ‘sorted’ is the only acceptable way, or one can display an eccentricity to evade the normative. But the fact remains that the contradictions are ignored, the ironies are buried, and picture perfect poses replace it all. One even learns to aestheticize loss for presentation. The only thing I see that remains meaningful is perhaps ritual, not an imposed ritual but a personal/community ritual, and perhaps writing this here is a similar act. But, that needs another entry. Today, I just tried to put a little bit of myself out there, waiting for a more critical introspection to follow, maybe some other time!