Time to Think

My name is Mr Nicholas Pembridge, aged 35. I am a perceptive empath, chronic overthinker, widower and father to two young girls. It is late, and time for bed, so I enter into my customary bedtime ritual.

Tuck in eldest child. Have prayers together.

Decide that life is ok. “I can do this. Other people are not so bad after all.”

Try to put youngest child to bed, lose patience with her as she is playing “need to brush my teeth for eternity” game.

Life is worrying. I’m not sure why, it just is.

I have a whole new day tomorrow in which I must again negotiate the hell of other people.

Mind immediately relocates to Sartre’s description of hell.

It’s a play.

Can’t recall the name.

Googles it.

Ah yes.

Must remember to reset my homepage to DuckDuckGo too.

This day has been an existential challenge.

”There, see, Sartre again.” That’s a sign.

I must read some of his writing. I am ashamed of myself for not having done so before.

Start imagining how life would be had I been Grammar School educated.

Regret that I didn’t show promise in languages as that would have permitted me to study Latin.

Evacuate bladder.

Wash hands.

Brush teeth, all of them, upper and lower sets, the tedious nature thereof generating deep anxiety at the time wasting pointlessness of such repetitious mindlessness.

Decide to shower before bed.

Turn the shower on cold, because I read somewhere that cold water showers are beneficial to health.

Take one step into cold shower.

Turn the shower on hot, because my vitamin supplements will take care of the beneficial health issue.

Start to sing “Enter Sandman”.

Stop singing ”Enter Sandman” as I realize its a scary song to be singing at night time.

Scan memory for a happy morning song.

”Morning has broken like the first morning”.

Nah, that’s not cool.

Go back to ”Enter Sandman”.

Realise that I only know one verse.

Stop singing.

Turn off shower.

Turn on shower again as I realise I haven’t yet applied soap and washed myself.

Wash hair.

Wash bollocks.

Turn off shower.

Dry off.

Become irritated at the tedious nature of having to dry myself every day.

Get dressed for bed.

Change pyjama t shirt to favourite old white one.

Now need to change pyjama shorts too.

Return to youngest child’s bedroom.

She is still playing teeth cleaning games.

Lose temper.

Instantly regret losing temper.

Worry about long term effects of lost temper upon daughter’s internal equilibrium.

Cast mind back to own childhood upsetting of internal equilibrium.

Shut down recollection. Too painful to contemplate.

Jung was right.

Need to integrate shadow into life so I can look myself in the mirror.

Check to see if both my eyes are still present.

Glad to learn they are.

Look at daughter.

Grateful that both her eyes are also present.

Spend several minutes holding philosophical debate with self over which is more important for weight loss: exercise or good diet.

Decide that exercise is a social construct so salads win.

Time to take off makeup.

Realise I am not a girl and don’t wear makeup.

Start to clean teeth again.

Wonder why so much of life is spent repeating simple actions such as brushing teeth or eating or sleeping again and again and again, every day.

Try to figure out a way that I could brush my teeth once and be finished with it forever.

Realize that the only way that would work is if I died immediately after brushing my teeth.

Or remove teeth and eat via a tube for the rest of my life.

Decide it probably isn’t worth it.

Probably.

Climb into bed.

Distract self once again this time by perusing email Inbox.

Google the definition of a word used in one of the emails.

Google that word’s etymology.

Research Middle English.

Try to figure out how my name would have been spelled and pronounced back then.

Google the history of my last name.

Recall that my neighbour has same first name as me.

Bastard.

Wonder why society used to, and in some cases still does, frown on children born out of marriage.

Consider writing an angry letter to the editor explaining the unfairness of that.

Or perhaps a book that highlights the hypocrisy of a society that punishes children when their parents go against traditional morals.

Question why I was never interested in this issue until I realised the neighbour is a bastard.

Is it bad that I was never concerned about it until I realised its personal impact?

Shouldn’t I be equally concerned about fighting for causes that do not have personal impact?

Is fighting for the right cause still right if I fight for selfish reasons?

Is fighting right?

Or am I even being selfish?

Re-analyse my entire life and actions for the twelfth time this week.

Decide that, on balance, I’m probably somewhat of a good person.

Then again, that’s what a bad person would say, too.

Decide that I’ll just try to be a good person and hope that I have been one so far.

It’s impossible to be objective about oneself.

But shouldn’t one at least try to be objective about oneself?

Or would the inherent futility of that only succeed in deluding one into believing that one’s subjectivity is actually objectivity?

Brain: “Ssh. You’re overthinking again.”

Yes, but isn’t overthinking preferable to under thinking?

Brain. “BE QUIET.”

Wonder if it’s normal to have discussions with own brain.

Start to google that.

Look at clock.

11:30pm.

Fall asleep.

Hear a noise outside.

Look at clock.

It’s 2am.

Turn over.

Turn over again.

Repeat once more.

And once more again.

Count sheep.

Count sheep in French.

Count sheep in German.

Realise that I know no German.

Or French.

Recite Greek and Hebrew alphabet.

Wonder about writing a book about how an ancient hero would handle Covid lockdown.

Try to choose appropriate ancient hero.

King Cnidas would be good.

Settle for Spartacus.

What would Spartacus make of lockdown?

Realise there will be no more sleep tonight.

Get out of bed.

Hit toe on radiator.

Wait full 3 seconds for toe to send signal to brain that toe is in agony.

Wonder how that works.

Why does light move quicker than sound?

Pick up MacBook.

Go downstairs.

Open MacBook.

Email from University Head of Department asking if I will supervise an MA Dissertation

Feel glow of pride at being asked.

Reply instantly.

Head of Department replies within two minutes remarking that both of us are awake at 2am.

Enter into extended email exchange on Covid 19 restrictions and likely rambunctious eschatological interpretations of vaccine mandates.

Say good night to Head of Department , but not before he asks me to also mark essays on Postmodernism.

Open first essay.

Instantly know it is rubbish as opening sentence is incoherent gibberish.

Award mark of 58.

Pass. Barely.

Read through rest of essay.

Consider revising mark to 48.

Remember that this is the first MA module so decide to be lenient.

Student asserts postmodernism commenced in 1989.

Become disgusted with student.

Insert acerbic remark into essay asking “1989? What? Just like that? Ex Nihilo?”

Feel sense of warm self-satisfaction for inserting Latin phrase in student feedback at 3:30 am in the morning.

Decide to stay up all night to see if it is really possible to see sounds after suffering sleep deprivation.

4am arrives along with heavy eyelids.

Go back to bed and fall asleep.

Instantly the alarm goes off.

Knackered beyond all knackerdness.

It is 7am, the day is just starting, and unlike at night time there is now plenty to think about.