Monachopsis is defined as the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place. It is also a made-up word. Probably, anyway. It comes from a subcategory of new language and words attempting to define feelings. Unique, niche feelings, granted, but feelings nonetheless. Notwithstanding the dictionary work from wordsmith John Koenig who penned The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, there is little else on this new form of dialect. Monachopsis does, by definition, encapsulate an odd and unique feeling of sorrow. It specifies a time and place for an individual, and the experience felt by that is distinct enough to not need or have a word. It does have a phrase, though. Imposter syndrome. A rare beast, but one that cements itself when success is thick, fast and incomprehensible.
Even imposter syndrome plays fast and loose with how it can be applied. The persistent inability to believe that one’s success is deserved or has been legitimately achieved due to one’s own efforts or skills. There is no correlation between where work is and where the mind is. They’re two separate entities. Nothing to be proud of but nothing to shrug the shoulders at either. Indifference in the face of a dream. Scary, unexpected, but worst of all is the lack of catharsis. Realising there was nothing to play for, that it didn’t really matter, is far worse than having some negative or positive reaction. There it is. Done. Goal met. Onto the next one. It’s banal and neutral, and that hurts far more.
That feeling of misplacement can come from anywhere. Not feeling value for the self or in the area around it. A lack of belief not in the ability but in the career path and how quickly it passes over. A year ago it was three weeks at McDonald’s, now it’s Venice and a full-time job. The fast-track life. The financial security. All of it feels fake. A sham that’ll cave in on itself when someone realises the abilities possessed by someone that rattles out reviews all day is, in fact, common. Anyone can do this. All you need is a keyboard, the ability to open a new tab to write out the word “synonym” and a Tassimo machine. Emphasis on that last part. You can’t do this without either a sincere lack of sleep, a disassociation from social life or a desire to funnel coffee into your system. A triple tends to work best.
But the feeling of work is infectious. There are glimmers of satisfaction to be found not just in the creative process but in the routine and schedule it can bring. The time limits set are getting better, there isn’t as much burnout, but it is always on the horizon. Extinguished enough to enjoy it, alight enough to feel the itch to get back to it. A holiday would be as bad as 12 articles a day again. But both have some appeal. It’s a constant, rather than a flow. Do this or that, not both. The imposter syndrome that surrounds it comes from feeling both a sham and as though there isn’t enough effort. What it creates is a comparative scale. If someone is writing better than you, write more than them. If someone is writing more than you, write better than them. A self-eating cycle that does more to damage the own ego than anything or anyone else.
But ego is an excellent protective shield. To boast of doing this interview or that feature. It would be nice to actually care for them. Brushing shoulders with comedians and musicians whose admiration was sent forward long ago in gig tickets and album purchases, but now comes across as meaningless. Has the magic dissipated? A little. That was inevitable. Or was it? Was it inevitable that a dream could be hit so early, and the dissatisfaction that followed be so full on? There isn’t much way of finding that out. What is next?
Cementing that could come from seeing those around us and their experiences. Feeling not jealousy for them or a longing to be in their place or around them, but a fascination for how they turned out, and how fast they’re moving. We can dream about what we want from life. How we can go about getting it? But if the dream is achieved too quickly, too easily, it feels poor in quality and unsatisfying. Dreams can’t be met at the age of 22. But here we are. What next? There is something sincerely empty about getting what you want. Good luck to those that can switch their brains off. To those satisfied without having to claw for more. Not knowing their place, but knowing the value of experience and gunning for an ever-shifting goal. What is the goal for those that can’t? To get better? To continue the shift in momentum?
Venice, interviews, feature pieces, a full-time job, a brief dabble into lecturing and the process behind it as a potential for the future, it all comes crashing together. A meaningless foray into a career that will last until death. This is it. Nothing more after this. Find comfort from within rather than an outward look. To plan so far into the future is erratic and scary. It is nonsensical also. That sudden fear that grips and shakes you when you face the truth, as Yard Act so touchingly put it on 100% Endurance.
Maybe all of those feelings are compounds of another word Koenig brings to our attention. Trumspringa. The desire or feeling that comes from wanting to move away from the career path and onto something simple and routine, like tending a farm or keeping a lighthouse. Those dreams that have been idolised by Instagram reels with sepia filters are not a longing but a condition. Something real and something possible that few would dare to do because the logistics don’t make sense. New etymology must be defined with examples, but because they are so raw and fresh, it is hard to define what they are and how they feel. This is just a case study. A drop into the ocean of language.
Dropping into that ocean, though, is a privilege for many. It is a goal for those that do not have it and an experience for those that do. What is the outcome, though? There are no doubts about where this career goes. No clamours for fame. No breach of the fold. No cemented, solid work that will be remembered when Death clangs the scythe against a headset blurting out a Best of LCD Soundsystem compilation on whatever Spotify equivalent has in store for the future. Definitely no book. Maybe the mindset is wrong. To think realistically is often perceived as thinking negatively. To put all the eggs in one basket is a mistake, that much is certain. Realistic thinking. Knowing your place. Maybe that’s something synonymous with class, stature and region more than the pangs of doubt buried underneath a façade-like ego propped up for podcasts and presentations.
