I'm fine
Hi, reader. Either of you.
I’m writing here to tell you that I’m fine. I can see the red sirens going off, and you, grabbing your phone in panic, thinking I might have done something stupid. Relax, friend. I’m actually fine.
I’m calm, I’m not sad, I’m not feeling anxious. I’m moderately happy. I’m currently enjoying the post-workout release of endorphins, knowing way too well that feeling is just the appetizer to a main course of pain. The smell of basmati coming out of the rice cooker is telling me to bring my ass to the kitchen and cook the turkey which has been patiently waiting in my fridge for its turn to justify its existence and/or death. There’s some light coming from the window but I have the led lights of my lovely kitchen turned on and I’m feeling fine. I’m almost done working on this task at work that has kept me busy, and stressed me out, for a week or so. And I’m fine.
And here is my post. Does it feel weird? Are you still worried? Does my stressing out how fine I feel concern you? Does it feel like me? Is there a point to it? The truth is, I’m really fine and that’s exactly how I feel. But why would I come here and write it? What is the purpose?
Since I started blogging in the old era of the internet, that era when companies wouldn’t ask you to self-censor because you wrote something problematic (one day I’ll write about it), I have always felt about writing when I was not in this state of mind. Because when I feel good, I don’t feel like expressing anything. I’m enjoying it by not even realizing I’m doing fine. And that can go on for hours, days or even weeks. Maybe it’s not great, but I write to express and analyze myself. It’s not a call for anything. It’s just for me. There’s a quote I really like from an old Italian songwriter that I find perfect for my situation: “Why do you always write sad things? “Because when I’m happy I go out”.
Ignore the fact he killed himself at 28. I will never be nearly as famous enough to consider taking my life. (this is a joke, this is my sense of humor)
I like writing because it makes me feel better. I like writing when I feel some lack of balance. When I’m sad, when I’m feeling anxious, when I’m angry, when I’m mentally drained. When I’m in love (which I don’t consider a good state of mind).
I might write when I’m feeling okay, to sum up how I was feeling before. But what is the point of writing when you’re so focused in the moment? What is the point to tell you that today I didn’t punish myself by going over all the mistakes I made, all the chances I missed, all the things that might go wrong in the future, everything that I will never accomplish and the people I probably won’t ever talk to again, because they’re dead to me, because I’m dead to them or just dead. What should I say? That today the stars aligned and nothing was wrong outside? That the mix of sun and rain made me feel everything was possible and beautifully useless at the same time? Should I write about how about a 5th of the time I’m awake, things are like today? Is that worth writing about?
Think of all the art you like. Think about the paintings, think about the music. How much of that art you love was born from calm and happiness? How much of it was about the author having a nice, productive day at the office, then a beer with a friend? Probably almost none of it. Because what is there to write about? Doesn’t it sound ominous? Let me tell you about that time when nothing happened, you’re going to love it!
So, my dear friend, next time you read something I wrote and think “why does he always write this kind of stuff?”, just know that it was one of those days and I felt like writing. I don’t think updating this space with my workout routine and what I accomplished at work makes much sense. I would find it boring at best, can’t imagine what kind of obnoxious experience it would be for you.
PS: I wrote most of this post yesterday, but ended up not publishing it because I went out. Do you want to hear about it?