I’ve been feeling rather nihilistic of late, a sentiment that culminated in my crying over a basket of washing – granted, my third that day alone – wondering how, exactly, my life had brought me to this point.
I have a Master’s, I thought to myself, incredulously. In International Journalism! I should be in the West Bank, reporting on the Israel-Gaza war! (I once dreamt of becoming a war reporter, but it’s probably a good thing I didn’t because I am a massive scaredy-cat.)
I was going to write a piece about said nihilism, about the moments of existential dread that have seen me lying in bed at 1am, asking myself how I could possibly have brought a child into this world; whether every single tomorrow is destined to feel like a repeat of today (and yesterday, and the day before…), how the life I thought I would have (a life in which I took several foreign holidays a year, for starters) had, instead, become this life… and then realised, no one needs to read that.
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