Everything is Alive

BY William Anderson

As I’m writing this, I’m on my customary bus ride home from university. My fingers glide across my keyboard, trying to excavate the streamlined screams in my mind… well, without the occasional typo and obtuse word. I look around; I see forlorn, freckled faces all staring at something else. I’m balancing my water bottle between my thighs, in a Catherine Wheel shirt tucked into my blue 501s, with a brown belt and matching tiger’s eye bracelet (I’m not into astrology; I just like the colour). A headphone jack protrudes from my tote bag, as some languid miserabilist sings loud enough so I can’t hear my thoughts. The fact that I can’t skip every song easily makes me enjoy the flow of the record more—the deep cuts grow on me and fester, or fade into soothing ambience. In faded views out the bus’ window, it suddenly dawns on me: I have no money, no future, no hopes, few friends; I am the happiest I’ve ever been. 

For the last nineteen years, I’ve spent my life suffocated between extremes, like a perpetual game of tug-of-war. I’d feel ashamed of my anger, then I’d feel angry because I was ashamed. I couldn't find a way to just stop and grieve for what had happened to me, so the cycle would repeat. There must’ve been something wrong with me; I am nothing more than a charcoal stain on a blank canvas; I thought. So I used others to distract myself from the shame and anger cycles. Mixed with obsessive starvation, I thought that if I wasn’t living without a numbing buffer, I wasn’t living. Unsurprisingly, after many abusive situations and close encounters with death, I learned that I’d rather be alone than miserable in company… only I didn’t know how to be alone. 

Last year, I had a gap year—or rather, a gap year and a half—where I divided my time between healing and obsessively writing. Above watching a load of movies and falling back in love with music, 2025 taught me how to be content alone. I spent that year in a weird twilight zone; the best I’d been in my life, but not healthy enough to assimilate into society. The first six months of 2025 were defined by insomnia, shame, starvation, repeating old tricks, and rapid distraction. It felt like no matter what I did, what pill I was on, or how I coped, nothing changed. I’d feel my body eat itself, my limbs splayed in arthritic posture and feel out of control. 

With university breathing down my neck, I knew I had to change. It started with a medication change… or three. Then, to get back into the swing of things, I had an idea to start an art diary; a documentation of every movie. By the end of the month, I’d create a collage of my favourite albums I had heard to make it more aesthetically pleasing. Given how difficult it was to get into university, I was under the impression that the work would be comparably complicated. I was wrong and definitely over-prepared, but I’m still determined to see this project out. 

While I’ve seen 1,800 films and read 200 books, I only remember a select few. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention while watching, so my feelings seeped out of my brain as the credits rolled. Now, writing essays about everything I consume has forced me to use my brain. To unpack the schematics of a story, to find what works and what doesn’t, how it makes me feel, and what the author wants me to feel. While I could easily write reviews on Letterboxd, I believe that writing frequently and selfishly is more true to my mind than it would be if I were to write for an audience, no matter how small that audience is. In my diary, I can experiment with quips, sentence structure, punctuation, and avoid needless self-censorship. Regardless of who views them, these ventures help to improve my articulation and also supply great joy. The document is currently nearing 60,000 words, and I couldn’t be happier. 

With limited time on the bus or in the library before class, I am forced to be alert. When you have an abundance of free time, you often feel overwhelmed and fail to do anything productive. It’s only when your time is cut in half that you must plan your days to be as productive as you can. I write anything from a personal essay (I refuse to call it journaling)‌, to taking notes of an album I’m listening to, or an analytical review of the film I had watched the night before. During the in-between zone, I am always doing something.

Occasionally, those feelings from so many years ago prick. Fermented fears strike in silence with twice the venom. Part of me still feels small, lost, dejected, and indefinitely alone. By keeping myself busy, I try my best to bury these thoughts and keep moving forward, but every couple of weeks, I have a bad brain day. Days consumed by jealousy when I can’t do anything more than doomscroll and listen to more sad bastard music. But these days are transient and fade away. After all, winter turns to spring. To paraphrase an old obsession, when I believe I am in Hell, I suddenly am submerged in its flames. Now I’ve learned that if I were to become resentful and jealous in isolation, I would be dehumanising people I barely know by comparing my insides to their outsides. I’m also doing a massive disservice to the joy I feel daily. 

Right now, life isn’t something to endure; it’s something worth living. We live in a world where atrocities happen every second, but we also live in a world where some form of magic happens every day. A random act of kindness from a stranger, fingers creating shapes on an instrument and words on a page, and a conversation with a friend or your mother can alleviate whatever is bothering us. We just need to find them and squeeze every ounce of it until it runs dry. Everyone feels lost sometimes; everyone drifts, but moments like these, staring out the window and smothering the melody of my mind, turn these days to dust. 

I live to feed Teddy; to hold the door open for others; for my morning coffee; to come home and be greeted with a package in the mail; for the unread notifications I missed while asleep; to derange my senses in art; for the possibility of finding a new obsession; to express myself without hang-ups; for the song that resonated with me most to define my day; to hear the hot water screech, soar, and take my wounds with it every morning. I live for all these reasons, and countless more. To make the whirling world stand still, we must overdose on what brings us joy—responsibly, of course.  

Snapping back to my seat, I realise I need days, hours, minutes, and seconds alone. Accompanied by the syncopated riff of my heart. Surrendering my eyes to a clouded sky with a glimmer of sun seeping in—or succumb to my habitual hunched shoe gazing—noticing the same cracks on every sidewalk I see and the papered crunch of auburn leaves. 

While there have been many times I’ve lost control in my life. These days, you will never hear me say I am not in control of my emotions, or that my mistakes are not my responsibility to change, or that I am incapable of change. I may not have been able to control my life in the past, but I can control how I grow and if I heal. I am not perfect, and I know the sky’s the limit, but I continue to show up for the people in my life and accept responsibility for everything I have and have not done. What more could I want? I am alone, but I am not lonely.