I am not at Renn Fayre. To be honest I had not truly intended to go, but some part of me did want to, did consider, for the first time in the last couple-few years. The thing that prolly did me in was the ticket price (alas poor student!) though my back getting all messed up this week didn't help for having the schoolwork out of the way either. And since I'll be moving out to Baltimore this summer, this is the last year I could go for some while. More's the pity: this year a number of old friends came in for the weekend.
Livingroom table, covered with papers and oddments. Dinner, a simple dish of spicy tofu and baby bok choy. On the side, Dos Equis. On the mind, time. Passing, withering, wasting, empty. In the background, Type O Negative, Bad Religion, This Mortal Coil, Social Distortion. Songs grown old with playing, flat and infirm now, not strengthened by the fermentation. I've a'once too much music to listen to and not enough that's new, different, emotional. There's something in the water, or something in the age. The affliction's been going round like influenza for a year amongst the élite of all my friends.
Years ago I took steps to remove myself from the public stream of media. And for the longest time this was a good thing. Friends partook oft enough to know enough of what goes on in the world abroad, filtered of the nuisance and propaganda of the presentation. But as time's worn on those friends have flown 'way, worn thin. These days there seems to be more of a disconnect, like I'm being left behind by the world, rather than having time to enjoy it untethered by frivolities.
The problem with age is that the older you get noone tells you to go out and play. Trapped in the workaday world, every moment is a moment you could be doing more work. Trapped in the studyaday world, every moment is a moment you could be doing more research. Scheduled downtime, for movies, or shows, for gaming, for walking, slips away. Entertainment is scheduled in the cracks, reading on the bus, blogging before work, a moment's respite in a restaurant, but without a time out of time they are but passing distractions in the big rush, to make it big, to make a difference, to get known, to get ahead, to get dead.
Growing up we saw in our parents the dismal life we could never understand. No friends, no fun, no lives, no sleep —or perhaps sleep for once, that blissful narcotic, the waters of Lethe to wash away the worries of today, tomorrow, forever, waters rushing calmly over slumbering heads. And through our rush to grow up, to be free of the shackles of youth, we rush headlong until we wake one day and wonder where it all went so wrong.
Yet in our introspection we have our answers. In our friendships we have our drugs. And in our memories we have, of our demons, also Annwn. And Time too, the Great Destroyer, is the antidote to the suffering it brings. We have only to adjust, to relearn, to forget. And to never stop searching.