Still a world out there, I suppose. I have been doing a (very) little personal writing lately, but for the most part I still haven't acted on an obvious realization: I will only do all those things I wish I did (writing, learning another instrument, getting on a reasonable sleep schedule, seeing friends) if I . . . do them. If, instead, I sleep until 2 p.m. and then read baseball analysis for three hours, books for another two, do a translation job, and then watch a baseball game, I won't do those other things.
Yes, amazing, I know.
I just always feel like reading is fun, and those other thing are work. And since my ambition has steadily shrunk as my twenties wear on, I have less and less impulse to do work to achieve goals. I keep thinking that since I'm mortal, accomplishments are of very limited meaning--to me or others. I don't know. I guess the world would be a very, very slightly richer place if I put in more effort and made a more productive use of all this leisure I've lucked in to. But the difference seems beyond subtle to me, beyond infinitesimal and into the realm of . . . no, actually infinitesimal covers it.
But at the same time, I feel like I can't keep going through life not doing anything. I can't keep wasting days, floating through time, looking up every now and again to see that I still haven't moved. I feel like I might as well not live if I'm going to live like that. This isn't to say that I'm feeling suicidal--merely that I don't know how I'll be able to live with myself, not that I won't be able to.
So I guess what I'm saying here is we're about to witness an evenly matched battle between hopelessness and shame. If you're going to watch, you'll have to be extraordinarily patient. I take my time with the best of them.
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