This is weird. For both of us really. It’s been over a month since my last blog post, so I’ve fallen quite spectacularly out of the rhythm of writing, and some of you have stumbled optimistically onto my Facebook friends list so recently that you may never have seen a blog post of mine. As someone with over 600 posts under their belt, that’s a very strange thing to say.
This latest drought has not been for lack of trying – there are about three unfinished drafts with much less exciting titles than this one swirling around my WordPress dashboard – but lack of success. They weren’t funny, or informative, or hugely insightful; not that a lot of my, particularly older, posts were, but I always tried to get in one good joke or one interesting observation, so even if nine-tenths of what I wrote was total bollocks, there would at least be a single quotation you could take away from the post. A bit like reading literary criticism to be honest, a form which has an awful lot of cool quotes, and an awful awful lot of bollocks.
But lately my attempts to write have been flat. My writing has mirrored my life, therefore, as I’ve been in a constant state of severe meh for months now, a mehness exaggerated by the fact that I now use phrases like ‘my writing has mirrored my life’ like I’m Augustus Fucking Waters or someone. I’m not happy with how I’m performing academically, I’m frozen by fear of screwing up on a sporting field, and I’m overwhelmed and lost as one disaster after another befalls my societies, leaving me powerless to save them yet somehow totally responsible at the same time.
I’m also aware that I’m a melodramatic fuck, but that comes with being a literature student; I put the killing thing between my teeth, but don’t give it the power to do the killing, then get decked by a physicist for being such a pretentious little shit.
However, there is some comfort in all of this. Comfort in the fact that, to the best of my understanding, I am still very much alive. Despite the best efforts of my useless pancreas, dodgy joints and brain’s masochistic desire to play a sport in which being squished by hulking armoured giants is a mere occupational hazard, I’m still here.
One of my favourite things to do on the DS game Age of Empires II: The Age of Kings, which is a fantastic game, even in the form of a stripped-down port, would be to build up a huge empire, then let it burn to the ground. I’d wage an epic, Cold War-esque struggle against a single foe for two hundred turns, each of us building vast citadels and networks of castles, then I’d plomp a villager in an uninhabited corner of the map, stand down my armies, and let my carefully constructed world turn to ash. The only survivor would be that villager, who would then be tasked with rebuilding my glorious empire for another two hundred-turn campaign, while my enemy remained at full strength.
The reason for this, as well as me being really quite good at AoE to the point where this was the only way to give the AI a fighting chance, was that I was interested by the smallness of hope. That even if a single unarmed peasant can drag themselves out of a warzone with two working hands and a scythe, a great empire can yet be built. Obviously, this is the kind of thing that only really happens in unrealistic strategy games and The Iliad, but it’s an ideal I like, and a narrative I always get behind.
And I am that villager, scythe and all. I’ve started projects that have fallen apart, put hours into subjects and modules I now know nothing about, and committed fifteen hours a week to sports I can’t really claim to be halfway skilled in. It’s all ash and fire and death and chaos and there’s not even that bastard Saladin and his cavalry sweeping down from the hills upon my poor French villagers.
Yeah, that leaves me depressed as fuck, but it leaves me here.
Now we’ll see what the villager can build. Whether they can drag their grades back to a reasonable level; whether they can shake off the injuries that have built up over years of exercise; whether they can tackle the depression and anxiety and fear of alcohol and much deeper, darker musings that have thrown their life off the rails more times in the last year than they can count.
Maybe they’ll fail. Maybe in two months they’ll drop out, move back home, get a job at Lidl to afford frozen jacket potatoes and slightly-better-than-average porn and die a slightly disappointing death. Maybe the barbarians at the gates will take the last city of the empire, and not even a villager will emerge from the slaughter. I’d say it’s more likely than not at this point.
But in a world where Trump can be president, people hold candlelight vigils for a dead gorilla, and Toblerone can be bastardised into little more than a chocolate bike-rack for really tiny fucking bikes, why not? Why the fuck not?
So come on Depression, do your worst. You’ve got clouds of fear and chains of pain; and I’ve got two hands and a fucking scythe.