It's as if I went to bed on the night of the 30th of June and woke up in the very, very, very late morning of the 4th of July, exhausted, confused and freakin' hungry. I had over-slept and missed the Time-bus.
I suddenly began to think about Jane Austen, her life, how it was shaped by seemingly unextraordinary, unremarkable, common events, even perhaps those of historical insignificance. I say this of course, only as an ordinary reader, not as an expert. My knowledge of her life is mainly from the short biographies that usually occupies the first few pages of her novels (the cheap, 2 euro each, Penguin classic ones).
I thought then about my own life. How unremarkable, how irrelevant, how unspecial it must be to anybody outside my family and friends. And maybe even within it.
I still don't know what brought on this wave of depressing inertia. Maybe it's because I'm on the first few pages of Mrs. Dalloway, the part where she ponders about how silly her life is. Or maybe it's because I'm sick of watching re-runs of Friends (could it BE any less funny?). Maybe its not just me. Perhaps the whole world stopped as Angelina checked into a hospital in Nice to await the coming of her Messiah-like twins. But something brought this on. It may be foolish, but I never shall blame myself for this.
There are a lot of things that should have made me jump out of the bed in the mornings this week. Wimbledon is going on at the moment, even though the deepest I've ever thought about it is how tan and stoic-looking Nadal seems to look each and every time. Then there's the couture shows in Paris. Personally, I loved Givenchy. Also, my provisional license had materialised through the mailbox. But these silly little nuggets didn't seem to lift the languor.
This week remains a mystery. I end this foolish, unremarkable, irrelevant post, hopeful that the coming week shall start with a bang. Literally or otherwise.
If not, I shall put rocks on my coat and drown myself in the Liffey.
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