Five years ago, chocking in angst and filled with anxiety, I looked for some sort of scholarship or working holiday visa to get me the fuck away from my life. I was unemployed, my savings were running out and I had no options. On top of that, I was trapped in a loveless relationship with the only woman I had had sex with, to that day. I was hopeless, unable to see a light at the end of the tunnel.
In this fucked up state, dreaming about a different life kept me going. “What if I get a one year course in Canada,” I thought, for instance; “I’d have the perfect excuse to break up and would be able to travel, live abroad… and have sex with blonde gringas!” That, of course, didn’t happen. Not in that way.
I did break up, after almost nine years of endless boredom. I did fuck “blonde gringas” -quite a few, actually. I did the whole “move abroad” thing. And got a job, put some money together, improved my English, figured out what the fuck I wanted to do with my life, and so forth. Dream come true, but no happy ending. Just a serious, deep and almost grotesque unhappiness.
“It’s all in the outside,” Marie said yesterday, while we were chilling in her bed; digging deep in our conversation. And it made total sense. These last few years, I have focused so much in crossing all these things in my bucket list, all these superficial things, as if they were gonna make me be someone. But it’s all just make-up for the soul; simple decoration, nothing else. Traveling, fucking, feasting, partying, drinking, splurging, fucking some more… that’s nothing. Useless fireworks that shine bright for a few instants, but fade away in the darkness of our existential void.
2016 has been the living proof of this. From the very first day, I went on a fornication spree. I fucked a number of attractive, smart, interesting women. I traveled a bit. I made very decent money at work. I bought some shit. I drank a lot. I ate out, tried new experiences, places, activities. Friends came and went. And now, on day number 366, what do I have to show for it all? Close to nothing. I lost track of who I am, blinded by my desires and so-called achievements. I was too busy trying to accomplish all of this, but I never took the time to wonder “Why the fuck do I wanna please my old self? I’m not that fucking guy anymore!”
Everyone have been bitching about how awful this year was. I won’t. It was fucking tough, yeah, but I made my dreams come true. Now, free of these childish and meaningless wishes, I can focus on dealing with the things that really matter. The real shit. Less Doing, and more Being. Hopefully, in a year from now, I will be writing something much less harsh, pseudo-existential and pretentious. And actually mean it.
Happy New Year, motherfuckers!