Senseless Life

I've never felt so tired in my life. Every day I come back home, knackered. After a day full of things to do, I sit on the couch or on the bed and I still have stuff to do. It's crazy, the pace of life in this city. And the more I think about it, the less I understand why.

After my -at this point- dreadful weekend, with all the waste of time, the arguments with filthy politicians who wanted me to be their pr instead of being a journalist, after doing flat planning in print production -with all the space in newspapers and magazines eaten up by ads, I've realised that in this world everything is a trade. We, as journalists, are traders. We sell our stories, because we have to sell the paper. We talk about things that are going on and might be a little be PRish too. Sometimes, a lot of times, indeed, we're just filling some space. Stories have become commodities, our job has lost significance, because we're so full of everything that we're throwing up. Bulimia is a good metaphor to describe our way of life.

London is a great city, but the quality of life is incredibly low. The constant sense of urgency, hurry, the feeling of not having enough time. In my life I had never experienced something like it before. And it makes me age untimely. When all we do is building something that doesn't last and doesn't matter, what's the point of planning in the first place? And when I think about the idea of manufacturing something as a stint that goes somewhere in the end, I have to think twice, 'cause we are so full of things, stuff, that even those who actually produce something concrete don't have any certainty that what they do is worth it. We spend an awful amount of time working -'cause in the end we have to pay the bills- but we may not really have a purpose to do so.

Which is sad. Incredibly sad.