Ennui
"Let it roll past your lips - ennui.
Doesn’t it feel good? The word itself is like a tiny cure for the very mood it defines.
Ennui - like Daft Punk, Coco Chanel, and the croissant - is one of those things that the French really nailed. It’s as though mere boredom were too pedestrian, so they defined an existential state that encompasses philosophical apathy and poised detachment.
Ennui is reserved for those with either stunning beauty, exceptional intelligence, or obscene wealth. Literature professors suffer ennui. Runway models suffer ennui. The single mom working the drive-thru window? Well, that bitch is just depressed.
Since I’m about halfway between runway model and fast-food employee, I can go either way. Sometimes I’m just bored and depressed, but sometimes that shit grows hairy armpits and starts smoking clove cigarettes.
Like now, for instance. I’ve got some serious ennui goin’ on.
Bored with sex. Bored with drugs. Bored with friends. I still love all three, but I just don’t feel like getting out of (or into) bed for any of them.
Nothing gives me a thrill at the moment.
It’s a bizarre thing, because I know intellectually that I lead a charmed life. Even emotionally I feel like things are fine. Still, I’m completely numb, as if the knife edge of my pain and pleasure is dull from repeated use.
No orgasms. No head rush. No laughter - and the odd thing is that I’m not upset about it. There are no tears either."
Doesn’t it feel good? The word itself is like a tiny cure for the very mood it defines.
Ennui - like Daft Punk, Coco Chanel, and the croissant - is one of those things that the French really nailed. It’s as though mere boredom were too pedestrian, so they defined an existential state that encompasses philosophical apathy and poised detachment.
Ennui is reserved for those with either stunning beauty, exceptional intelligence, or obscene wealth. Literature professors suffer ennui. Runway models suffer ennui. The single mom working the drive-thru window? Well, that bitch is just depressed.
Since I’m about halfway between runway model and fast-food employee, I can go either way. Sometimes I’m just bored and depressed, but sometimes that shit grows hairy armpits and starts smoking clove cigarettes.
Like now, for instance. I’ve got some serious ennui goin’ on.
Bored with sex. Bored with drugs. Bored with friends. I still love all three, but I just don’t feel like getting out of (or into) bed for any of them.
Nothing gives me a thrill at the moment.
It’s a bizarre thing, because I know intellectually that I lead a charmed life. Even emotionally I feel like things are fine. Still, I’m completely numb, as if the knife edge of my pain and pleasure is dull from repeated use.
No orgasms. No head rush. No laughter - and the odd thing is that I’m not upset about it. There are no tears either."