You know, New Zealand, that distant land of sheep, a peculiar juxtaposition of the mundane and the fantastical, a veritable stage for the human comedy, a unique Shangri-La or Xanadu. Yet, its beauty contains an undercurrent of ennui. The land stands in stark contrast to the complete unremarkable emotional nothingness of it. It is a tapestry of melancholy, woven from threads of isolation and suspended in an eternal limbo.
To understand this torpor, we must acknowledge that the place itself isn't inherently boring. In fact, the green hills, tall mountains, and clear blue waters are very impressive. However, when surrounded by such beauty constantly, the human mind paradoxically finds itself unable to maintain a consistent state of wonderment.
New Zealand, for all its beauty, lacks the urban cacophonous pace of cities such as New York or Tokyo. It lacks inexhaustible cultural offerings of Paris or London. The country's cities, Auckland and Wellington, are mere specks of urbanity in the vast pastoral landscape, unable to compete with anything that came to define the contemporary global experience. Kiwi nation, a land suspended in time, ultimately fails to deliver the meaningful connections and excitement that many of us yearn for.