The importance of profession for identity.

I know so many people whom I’ve never asked what they do for a living. Their profession never entered into my perception of them as persons, or into our ‘relationship’ which centered around other, more immediate concerns.

On the other hand here am I, and here are most of my peers, going slightly crazy about what they’re going to do for a living and how it will affect their lives - and that is, in more than just a financial sense. And I think quite justly so. I mean it’s obvious that you wouldn’t spend most of your time doing something that you thought wasn’t congruent with who (you think) you are.

But arguably, a job is not the same job when two different people do it. So you’re always you, whatever job you do, you’re simply you-doing-that-job.

And moreover, people are more than their jobs. (Arguably, some are less. But let’s curb the misanthropy for a while ...)


I don’t know what I’m getting at with these paragraphs ... Possibly preparing mentally for and rationalising doing that one job that will definitely not be me. Possibly just blathering.

BRB.

Hey butcher!

What
s
your
name?


Hey. Sometimes I wish I could just permanently regress to my teenage self and happily obsess about things (fictional or semi-fictional persons/events) to a frighteningly intense degree.

The relativism, scepticism and insecurity of my adult mind can get rather aggravating. Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll eventually bungee back and join some cult just because I'm so direly starved for faith (in the broader sense).


You can listen to this song, because it's in my brain right now. Please avoid watching the video. I'm sorry, I really couldn't find a less irksome one. I've always loved the way the apocalypse and or general carnage feature in Pulp lyrics. I'm quite apocalypse friendly in general. I guess it's a not-quite-part-of-this-world-thingy.

If it doesn’t have a name it must be normal ...

I’ve been having a strange time in the last few days – or maybe it has actually been going on for much longer, it’s hard to tell. It’s definitely somehow “broken out” now, so that I can’t hide it from myself any more. I can hardly remember a time when I’ve felt this low, and so ill equipped to deal with the lowness. I cannot really say what the reason for it all is. It seems it is no reason and all reasons. I simply haven’t been feeling very good about myself, recently, and there is nothing that seems fit to pull me out of it. My thoughts keep going in circles as I’m trying to figure out what it is that makes me so unhappy. I keep coming up with too many different reasons, none of them very reasonable but none-the-less real and heart-felt. I’m a bit worried that I’ve somehow slipped into a full-blown depression because I’ve never been like this.

In times of stress, I find it really hard to maintain an acceptable online presence. Sorry! I hope I’ll be back to a normal heart rate and posting frequency by approximately December 2nd.

I have lost my voice.

I have not been writing anything of substance during the last few months.
And indeed, it’s been years since I felt I had anything to say.
The question is, what am I so scared about? The answer is, I’m “scared” of not being good enough. “Scared” of my thoughts being too unoriginal, or not well enough put. “Scared” that my taste in things is so bad that I don’t even know which of my thoughts are worth saying out loud or writing down, and which aren’t. A while ago, someone or other has told me – relating to a completely different subject, but that is irrelevant – that I’m not really as great as I seem to think, and it just won’t leave me alone. I am constantly comparing myself to others, and concluding that I’m not fit to hold a candle to them. Why are they so much better than me? Envy turns into resentment, and I turn into a bitter cynical misanthrope. Then at times, I tell myself that this whole blogging thing is nothing but a narcissistic, specular, exhibitionist circus world that I don’t think I want to participate in anyways. And fear not, I think the same of the real world, in general, too. From time to time.

Also, I assume, I’ve lost something, and that is time to reflect. Time in which I am alone with myself, left to marinate in my own essence, so to speak. I don’t think everyone is like that, but for me, when I am with another person, or other persons (a lot), I forget myself a bit. I start existing exclusively in the space between me and the other person. I am de-centered. I put myself out into the creative commons. And I lose my own grip on myself.
The above, for some reason, has made it impossible to write anything that is in any way profound, because I don’t even think profoundly. I don’t have to. Everything just trinkles past, in an everlong, inconsequential stream
There might be other reasons as well. But those I dare not think, because they are inacceptable.

This is why there have been only pictures, lately.
And nothing interesting.
Sometimes I read things, and then I think, well, obviously. I’ve thought of that before.
But I didn’t write it down. Perhaps because I was too self-conscious and thought it wasn’t that impressive to begin with. But more likely because I was simply too lazy to put the thoughts into words.

tl;dr?
Pictures were taken in and outside of Westlicht gallery, Vienna.
Have a nice day.