You’re floating. Waiting. Planning. –No, not planning. Brainstorming. Ideas, ideas, ideas. The beginnings of projects. Little bricks in paths that travel only a few feet. And then the skeletons. The cobwebs. The traces of enthusiasm collecting dust.
Very hard to commit to anything. What’s the point? No point. That’s the problem. Everything is guided by shits-and-giggles.
Listening to “Are You Ten Years Ago.” Thinking about your own push-pull patterns with people and projects. When you were in high school–the prick that you were, naive and arrogant, but bursting with energy and purpose–everything had a point. There was a goal, and things were meaningful.
Angus referred to you as wasted talent. Then, a breakthrough in analysis: you have never used your brain for anything. Your history is one of bodily exploitation. Would you have it any other way? You see every modern person more and more disconnected from the body. Perhaps you should count it as a blessing that you are “wasting” good intellectual capital. For yourself. Right. Yes. No one is going to coop you up in an office, in a 9-5 job, even in a passionate workaholic lifestyle.
Fuck this game. Close your eyes. Run in the dark. Good old favorite past-times.
Nearly three weeks ago, you went running in the dark. Through the woods on a frosty night–and you found yourself crouched in a little ball on a logging road, pulling frantically at your soul like a clown pulling a never-ending line of handkerchiefs from his sleeve. And then something clicked. Maybe the analysis started working. Things felt better. Lighter. Easier.
Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. That sabbatical from sadness wore off, and you find yourself with a sore jaw from violently gnashing your teeth over stale chewing gum. Maybe if you keep pulverizing it, some juicy secret will squeeze out.
Anxiety is a funny thing. Apparently completely misunderstood. No, wait. Not understood period. What is it to be anxious about nothing? It’s like a feeling of doom. You forget to breathe. Sometimes it travels into your throat, and twists. Tighter-tighter. Like a wrench on a nut, right over your throat. No swallowing. And when the relief comes, you find yourself in a frenetic, though suffocated head space. Ramble-ramble.
Thanks to Neil’s second-hand smoke, you could sleep the other night.
Monday’s coming. Re-set.