Not making any sense…

A bit of time-traveling was necessary to post this blog, as it just didn’t fit with the rest of the politicised blogs of 5/12/2010, and it fitted better amongst the more self-pitying blogs around 5/12/2009. So, I have sent this blog back one year, for the sake of the continuity of the blog and also because I am ashamed to still be the wreck that I am from time to time; there seems to be an expectation to grow out of discontent, leave it in youth as we begin our professional lives – I have achieved neither. So, lets pretend that this is 2009 and not 2010.

I wrote these thoughts on a journey through my town centre on a Saturday night, trying to find a reason to either go home and curl up in my box or look for hope within the pubs.

(Coming into town on the train from Leeds)
As I looked out of the window as the train pulled in at the lowly town which is my historically chosen prison cell, I looked over the roofs of the houses and a thought gripped me: rows of terraced houses loom like ghosts in the minds of all the young adults from post-industrial towns; a glimpse of a meaning gone forever, from which nothing but desperate artistry as come near to replacing (Thus, most of the artistic ones cling to this imagery, which is why the terraced street and the looming hills of the moors behind feature so heavily in photographs and the poise of bands from ex-industrial towns from the late 1970’s onwards). Most of the those born after this period, no matter how well educated, are still largely devoid of this sole meaning, no matter how tough was the life it entailed.

(walking in a loop around the town)
I wish I’d never learned much at all; are these thoughts ones which I wish to recognise?
Probably not. However, recognising them was part of a fight, a fight to accumulate ammo for search of meaning, to prevent severe dips into depression.

(in the bar nearest the bus station, contemplating whether to stay or go)
I’m aimless, truly aimless. My productivity is just a diversion of this truth in the long run, but it always catches up.

(fill: contemplation from morning after)
When you look back at the previous depressed submissions to your box room, especially around festive occasions, its easy to forget the totality of the feelings you had during that moment. It is easy to look back and think “why did I do that? What made me give up so easily? There could have been a chance in there to get out of this hole!” Only a week or so later, when pressure collides with the sense of failure, do you feel that totality of hopelessness again and go and hide in your box again, for countless future you’s to never understand.
I see the calender taking the days away: I have an awful relationship with time (part inherent, part induced by a capitalist societies hatred of oldness), but the festive periods, and the end of a year are the most cutting. It is always a time for reflection and expectation, but you are now at an age when you know that the orb of meaningless which smothers your life will mean that you make the same mistakes over and over again. When down, you see no illusions of life, and you know that you’re going to keep screwing up; going round ‘n round in this orb of meaninglessness until the day that you die.

(on the bus home from town -stayed for bit but went shortly after)
Wherever I am, I want to be in the other place. Whoever I’m with, I want to be with the other people. I book days off work only to have my worst days of the year; it seems the motive to do so came from demons, who were in need of a good exorcising.
Battling mental illness isn’t so easy when society says ‘it’s all your fault’. They give you a pack of pills and might as well say “if this don’t make you normal than we might as well hand you over to the cops now”. Waiting for any other sort of help is an acceptance of another year on a mental gulag. But you can’t heal in this pool of sickness, you’d need a mind-clamp to do that.
Why does the self-harmer resonate with the vandals? Because both are retaliating to an eradication of meaning in their lives.

Because my illness is of the times, nobody can help me.

There. I know it doesn’t make sense much. But depressive spells feel so total that there is no real beginning and end to them – it’s a jump-down into another you, the you kept in the basement, who’s experienced the same things as you, but sees it all as an accumulation of dead bones around his view. Like a 2 dimensional platform game, the objective is to try not to fall down the trapdoors on to the lower level, but its hard, especially when you don’t know when to run and jump. But because my writings about mental illness are atomized by all around, I will not let them be in full view of most eyes (few people will trudge through the archives of my blog), so I post them into the past. However, I write that “my illness is of the times” and
“nobody can help me” precisely because I know my ailments are created, or at least exacerbated, by the late capitalist society: my nihilistic moments, my isolated moments, my eating disorders, my self-loathing all have their roots firmly set in this sick society. Thus, I feel so annoyed that these kind of blogs will be seen as a cry for help for me only and not a cry for help in general.

About John Ledger

A visual Artist, eternal meanderer and obsessive self-reflector by nature, who can’t help but try to interpret everything from within the tide of society. His works predominantly take the form of large scale ballpoint pen landscape drawings and map-making as social/psychological note-making. They are slowly-accumulating responses to crises inflicted upon the self in the perplexing, fearful, empty, and often personality-erasing human world.

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