suspended animation (the good kind)

You know that cow Damien Hirst put in that tank? That’s how I feel a lot of the time. In perpetual suspended animation. Kinda like a space ship in orbit around a decaying planet in a not so distant future, or like a minor but recurring character with no major plot lines in a never ending TV show.

March 2020 was five minutes ago but tomorrow is a lifetime away. I kid myself that my achievements would be much more if they weren’t shadowed by a worldwide shut down. More measurable, more braggable. I would be much more. But if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I was even on a trajectory to moreness in the first place.

What if life is just ordinary?

To be a person who has done something is different to being a person who is doing things. And doing things is exhausting. When people ask about my dream job I always laughed and told them I do not dream of labour, and now I no longer dream of dreams (in a good way).

I don’t need to be the best at something if I can repot my growing plants on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I do not need to monetize my skills after work in the form of a side hustle if I can nap in a sunbeam instead. I don’t need to be better if I can be myself. What if it’s enough to be content? What if it’s enough to be ordinary?

A suspended state isn’t a bad thing if you enjoy it. Maybe it’s because I’m old now, but chasing the more for a full decade of adulthood has left me winded and panting . It’s nice here, in this suspended state. I get to have a sit down and catch my breath.

The B plot is always better anyway.

I wrote this for my 28th birthday, after spending four days filled up of love and prosecco, I hope it resonates with somebody else

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British lass in Canada, writing about politics, pop culture, feminism, class, being a millennial, telly, and myself. Tweet me @blerhgh