As I walk home from my expedition to the grocery store, I wonder what I’ll write about today: it’s friday after all. It will not be superfoods. Even if I have been wanting to tear down the growing Dutch collective health obsession for a while now, and the timing would be perfect given the massive social media reaction to the government advise not to blindly trust such products, I won’t do it today. The whole thought of it exhausts me. Another time, perhaps.
I might write about this little walk on a sunny day instead, and about how much I don’t mind that the climate is losing it. It’s beautiful. I love this broad, square-like street leading to my front door. Our building isn’t mother’s finest, and the construction sites around mess it up quite a lot, but it’s home for me. Besides, the sky will always be here to give me the space I need. No, let’s not write about that.
Shouldn’t I once write about the arrogance of world leaders, fighting over little pieces of land with the so-called excuse that the inhabitants of that little piece would benefit from lawfulness? Or perhaps about the troubles in the desert, where ancient cities are torn apart by groups I understand so little of?
As I walk here, I wonder what it is I like to write about. Internet ethics, psychotic murderers, mass hysteria, internal conflicts, adventures in the streets of this town. Love? Minorities? The enormous problems we face without being aware of it? Am I not just writing about my own little world under the pretension of making others’ a better place? Well of course I am.
I put the key in the hole and open the door. I see the old familiar green hall that suffocates me in the same way all my homes once did. Compare it to the open air. I quickly adapt to this place, eat an egg, forget about the contemplation and take on the quest of puzzling with those tiny little scientific words of my second academic paper, in front of a screen that slowly, yet steadily takes my vision away from me.
No breakthrough, no message, just my own little world.