Long stretches of idle time abolish my enthusiasm. It is the fuel that is meant to continually burn. In my case, a spark is not easy to come by, and even less likely to ignite out of thin air.
I am a pensive man, and so the majority of my day is stretched into long sessions of silence and thought: stories, images, videos, memories.
Every day I tell myself to sit and focus as if nothing else matters; as if everything I love will die if I don’t. Perhaps if I lived this way, I could make something out of myself. A better man. A better human.
If only I could sit my ass down for long enough.
Wishful thinking.
Whatever it is that I don’t want to do, I do. And I do it so often that I’m not entirely sure that I don’t want to do it.
I know well enough the distractions that gain on me, I have considered them all. And truthfully, it’s all on me. Because I’m an easy target; too often I indulge in idle time.
I can sit and write a plan one day, and it can be a very good plan by my standards, and still the next day I will hate it. I will hate ever wasting my time strategizing over this stupid plan.
Rationalizing my disgust for this once beautiful plan is my favorite part. I get lost in the unending reasons why I should abandon everything, why none of it makes sense anyway, why I was wrong the moment I sat down.
After a while, after many rejections, after repeating my self-resentment even in my sleep, it becomes a place of frequent visits, a place of comfort. I know what’s next, and because of this, it’s harder to fail again.
TWO
And then, like yesterday, I try the same shit to see if maybe this time it will work.
Wherever I look, distractions arise. Like sea monsters. A fucking tragedy. I attempt an escape. Fucking pointless.
The waves come and come and come but if I occupy myself with something to do, they eventually fade. Vanish. There was a time when I thought this was permanent– the pain, regret, depression.
There was a time.
THREE
I search for balance, I rework my priorities, I rethink my approach. I try.
I pace back and forth in my room. I walk downstairs and back up again. Something has got to give– something, anything. It’s difficult to look away sometimes. How am I supposed to focus on one task at a time and balance this shit show without going insane?
It feels impossible.
So I try again.
SEARCHING
Deep down, past the inner me, beyond reason, I ask: What am I’m searching for? What am I trying to say?
I don’t think I’m trying to say anything at all, and that’s the problem.
Leaning my weight on empty dreams, always falling, caught in freefall, in the middle of it all.
Shocking.
