Not Good Enough: Trig Points

Not Good Enough: Trig Points



I found out what Trig points are.

They are really cool concrete monoliths scattered across England.

There are three near me.

So I visited them.

And I wrote up a little story about visiting them last night.

Few words, lots of pictures.

And I woke up this morning tired and aching all over,

teeth hurting from grinding,

and with a deep weight.

My alarm had gone off and I got up and stepped into the shower.

Because I need to keep moving.

And in the shower I thought about how stupid the trig point story was.

There are tons of other people who have visited the trig points and written about it.

The world does not need me, or anyone else writing about them.

The story has been written out.

Beaten to death, like a dead horse.

I took pictures of the concrete, edited them, and put them on my computer ready for the story.

But they were not anything interesting compared to the hundreds or thousands of photographs out there of trig points.

So many people with so many cameras with so many photographs that have watered down the meaning of a photograph and made it worthless.

My photographs will not add anything to the world,

Only bog it down.

And what is there to write?

Other than,

That’s a trig point, cool.

History stuff, trig point, cool.

All the stuff I am writing had been written by someone else before.

I am not adding anything.

Just adding to the noise of information that is filling everything and not doing anything.

It’s just me filling my time in this world, because I don’t have the courage to kill myself.

There is no point, no point in visiting Trig Points, it’s just a way of wasting time, because there is not anything to actually do, and I just need to find things that will occupy my mind and keep moving forward because it is all pointless.

So I dry myself from the shower, floss, clean teeth,

Make tea,

And sit down at my computer knowing the pointlessness.

The stupidity of a little story about Trig Points.

The uselessness of the story.

The uselessness of the photographs.

The pointlessness of life.

And I play solitaire.

Three games.

And then I write this.

Which should help.

So now,

I am not actually in the middle of panicking,

Like I was when I woke up and took the shower.

Just back to the usual background level of useless panic.

I think I’ll have a cigarette.


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