There are approximately 1.83 million things in the universe that I haven’t figured out yet; this ranges from everyday things like taxes, to trying to explain what momentum is – which I cannot, because every time it is explained to me I forget it in about a millisecond – to things like how to position myself in a black lives matter conversation as a white girl without looking like a fake activist who doesn’t really know shit but thinks it’s coolin some kind of fucked up way – that got way deep, way quick, right; bet you didn’t see that one coming. Truth is, I spend about 70% of my time japing about boys; the other 30% is about equally divided between thinking about and prepping – fine, taking away – food, and worrying about all the things that are wrong with the world. How tremendously vague, you could say. How wonderfully trying to look like a deep person who pretends to care about things that matter, you could say. Everything, and in the meantime nothing, is a struggle, and I don’t even know what I don’t know anymore.

Reason for this new part of my ongoing existential crisis is my recent visit to Uluru. People that haven’t been here would say it’s a big red rock, and that’s about it. It is absolutely not. If there is one place that ever made me believe magic is real – apart from Harry Potter Studios, obvs– it’s here. This absolutely massive rock is a tale of life, of love, of survival, and celebration. It is a significant part of Aboriginal culture, and somehow, even if the signs say that they don’t climb it out of respect, every day there are people venturing to the top. And unfortunately, here is where I admit to one of the most shameful, hypocritical things I’ve ever done: I started the climb myself. I read the signs, felt a pang of guilt, and continued on anyway. I’m embarrassed to admit it, to say the least. When you get to the car park where you can start either the climb or the walks around it, you see people struggling to make their way to the top. For a moment you forget about everything, and all you see is this challenge, this need to prove you are able to make it there. I wanted it so badly, so I did it – and that’s about everything that’s wrong with today’s society. It’s something that wasn’t mine to take, and I took it anyway.

I only went up to about one third before I decided to make my way back down. While I was walking up, it just hit me what an awful hypocrite I was. I didn’t want to make it to the top, because as the signs explain, going to the top, conqueringthis rock in any form or way shows a sense of ownership, and again, this is not something for me to own. Unfortunately, lots of people do not seem to grasp this concept – again, I’ve started this climb myself, so in no way am I writing this in a holier than thou kind of way, I’m just as much going to hell as every other one of you. At this point, it’s not even about the climbing anymore, it’s about the general attitude some people display when they enter this park. You pay a $25 fee, and somehow, certain people think it gives them the right to do whatever the fuck they want. They legit dare to say out loud that it is their rightto climb Uluru because they have paid to come here. There are people out there that legit dare to say out loud that they find it disgraceful the Aboriginal people say it is theirs; newsflash, it’s because it fucking is, but we just had to come along, plant flags on shit and go ‘this is mine now.’ They don’t seem to realise their money is actually going towards putting chains on a rock to make a climb they’re not even supposed to do just a tad safer. People die doing this shit, but I guess that just makes it all the more exciting.

I know that writing this is not going to change the world. I know that I’m not the one who should be telling people what is good or bad, right or wrong, but maybe, if I admit to the things I do wrong, the things I struggle with, it might encourage people to take a second and think about it, too. In no way do I mean that everyone should be writing whiny blog posts or pretending the weight of the world is on their shoulders, but it would be the possible start of change if people could at least be fucked to give important issues a thought. What keeps me up is that it seems that loads of people just cannot be bothered to care; someone told me they didn’t care enough about this whole thing to have an opinion on it, and that honestly makes me so sad. We don’t realise that it is what our privilege is; being able to not care about things, means whatever happens doesn’t affect you in the slightest of ways. You can just go out and live your life and not be worried about if you or your family will make it home that day, if someone is going to come and take things from you because they think they can. If you don’t know what privilege means, it means you’ve got it, and it’s probably time you wake up to it.