“…things take on a repeat.” — Charles Bukowski

I’ve played this video many times. It’s part of a longer interview with Bukowski, and if you’d like to understand him and his work, is definitely worth watching.

But it’s the above-quoted part that I want to linger over.

Am I alone in thinking that each day is, give or take a very few things, a repeat of the one before?

And I mean both in our actions and speech.

If not, then perhaps you’ve mastered something that’s escaped me these 50 odd years.

Oh sure, when I was growing up — certainly until the age of, say, 11/12 — there was a degree of freshness but even school was dull, given the abiding focus on passing nonsense exams and the like.

If I sound a bit worn down, even a tad hopeless, then you’re bang on the money. Perhaps it’s the plague and the extant conditions that have brought me to this point but I can’t help feel that if we don’t change our lives in a monumental, earth-healing way then it will be too late.

Even now I’m wondering how to spend my time. Work, well, that has slowed to a trickle and that means I’ve too much time on my hands to wonder. But I think that’s a good thing, much in the same that I tell my kids that there’s nothing wrong with being bored.

If I’ve any plan it’s not to have a plan. Been there, done that and come out the other side as indifferent to the state of affairs as when I went in. (I think it’s part of the human condition to always want to be doing something. Perhaps the art of living is to be content with non-doing or effort-less living.)

You might ask why I’m even sharing my existential torpor? I’m not sure but something tells me that perhaps I’m not alone in dealing with the ennui that comes from living life on daily repeat.