Cerebral Brooding


I've always been a fan of film noir and old television shows, though it's rare that I ever watch television these days. The images on the screen were those that I was exposed to during my formative years, and largely shaped the vision of the world that forms the basis of my present day percetptions, regardless of the diverse notions that make my mind the patchwork piece that it has become. What it all boils down to is that I am approaching 41 years old in a couple of weeks and still do not have a clue about my life - where it's leading, how to live it, what it is, a raison d'etre, etc. I certainly do not believe that mine is a typical existence, neither is it extrordinary or special. It simply is of a wider divergence from the status quo than those also seeking that ever elusive sense of normalcy. I have always found myself an idealist, hovering around the fringe of society in terms of my worldviews. Some of this has been rather rewarding, but much of it has also left me feeling savagely disappointed, unfulfilled and facing the harshness of depression and anxiety attacks.

In the present, I find myself living in the suburbs of the lower middleclass, married going on 14 years with a 7 year old daughter. I have a career as a teacher with the local public system and am reasonibly good at my job. All of these things, if we were to use the film noir and old telly shows as a benchmark, should see me happily settled in life. Contented. But then there is the part of my character that shatters this vision - that of someone who reads intensely and is influenced by the authors and eras of yesterday where life seemed to be a much harsher struggle, but largely more substantial. In the present, time seems occupied by things simply for the sake of having these things to do, as opposed to undertaking them for something more gratifying. There seems to be little in the way of socialisation and substance as we leap like a murder of crows upon a world full of shiny but insubstantial things and conversation snared in small talk. We live according to wants that have digressed beyond any form of sentimentality (and I am a romantic, partial to the organic nature that can exist between people).

I don't think that I ever departed from the mindset that became who I was in my early and mid twenties. I still think and live youthfully (though, perhaps now such a manner of thinking would be construed more as immature), though perhaps my position should warn me off such behaviours, and my body certainly screams for me to slam on the brakes at times! Yet, how else am I to think, other than the way I do? Again, life does not prepare one answers for such conundrums, and it beseeches me as to whether or not it is common for one to make such suppositions to themselves.

Life is a mystery, and as the frigid dark days of the Canadian winter are upon me, I often find myself brooding in this darkness, my heart in hibernation leaving me open to the gremlins of my despair. Perhaps it is the number 41 looming 19 days from now that have me snared in such reflection, and Christmas, which is also the pinnacle of my ideal's worst hour... I simply don't know.