Losing It

You know how thinking about something always ruins it.

That's right. I'm not using a question mark because you do know.

You might be tapping a complex rhythm on your thighs with your hands. Though it is complex, you're only doing it absent-mindedly. You're not thinking about it - it's all subconscious. It's just your body making fun for itself, as it is wont to do. The rhythm is easy because it's literally effortless. It's flawless. You could be a professional.

But the moment you think about it, you lose it. The moment you become aware of the rhythm, it becomes impossible. You try to continue, but you can't. You're no longer in the groove. You are clumsy and human. You might also experience this with Guitar Hero.

Thinking about things always ruins them.

I just had an experience of this kind.

I was walking through my office, and all of a sudden I realised that I was a living human man. I instantly became wobbly-legged, staggered for a few paces, and then collapsed face first into a cake someone had brought in.

I'd made the mistake of realising I was alive. As soon as I'd realised it, it began to disappear.

I knew I was walking, so I stopped walking. I knew I was breathing, so I stopped breathing. I knew that my white blood cells were... doing whatever it is that they do. And so they stopped doing it. I could go on. I could mention my bowels. I really could.

It's like remembering a dream. If you're only half thinking about it, you feel totally sure of the content and tone of the dream. But as soon as you try to focus on the details, the dream memory starts to fade away. It's playing hard-to-get.

So there I was, on the floor of the office, covered in cake, disintegrating through sheer awareness. One by one, I was realising the things I was doing and then forgetting how to do them. I realised I had hair, and it fell out. I realised I was keeping my tongue in check, and it lolled out. I realised I was doing a Rubik's Cube, and started to find it much more difficult.

Finally, I recognised the fact that I was a composite being, and my atoms began to dissipate.

Luckily, someone walked by and whistled a song I recognised. I tried to name it. My attention became focused on the tune, and the rest of my existence became unimportant. It was just background noise. I regained my hair and standing. I cleaned the cream off my face without even noticing.

I never thought about any of the things I've just written about again. I can't afford to. And neither can you.

***

My best thing about this time of year is that everybody's stopped going on and on about Robert Burns.

Seriously: fuck that guy.

Robert fucking Burns. What a dickhead.

No, I'm not going to call you "Rabbie". You're a disgrace. And the fact that people keep talking about him, and reading his so-called poems, and singing his so-called songs, makes me sick.

Robert Burns is a disgusting human being. And all over the place, people are singing his praises.

There's a four month period either side of New Year's Eve where you can't escape him. And I just don't understand it. I don't want to censor anything, or judge the aesthetic tastes of others but, I mean, seriously? Him?!

He makes my skin crawl, to be honest. Robert Burns. I wish Robert would burn! I've had to sit through months of his tedious nonsense. I feel like I'm the only sane person in the world. Why would anyone even contemplate purchasing a book of his writing? A leather-bound turd on the shelf of every person in Europe.

People don't think. They just absorb the prejudices and the practises of the people around them. Unquestioning sheep, flying the flag of Burns. Open your eyes, people!

He even has his own night. HIS. OWN. NIGHT.

Think about the people who don't have their own nights. Heroes. Great thinkers. Clement Atlee. Dennis Potter. Emmeline Pankhurst. David Hume. Peter Richardson. No night for them. Not one of them.

But bloody Burns...

On Burns Night, I don't go out. I close the curtains and cover my ears. It's just... maddening to think that in what's supposedly a civilised society, people can hold up such a slimy scumbag as someone to be esteemed.

Well, I don't esteem him. Not by a long shot. And I'm not alone on this. There are dozens of us who suffer (some in silence, some not) over the dark winter months. There's no sympathy for us. But at least we haven't compromised our principles.

Robert Burns is an arsehole.

An absolute arsehole.

...

Anyway, that's why I like late April so much.