One Day in Uncategorized Thoughts

I feel like, if weeks were only 3-4 days long I would be much better at them.

I tend to start weeks really well. On the ball, at least mostly. I’m working out, I’m walking, I’m doing the chores I set out to do. I’m writing, and usually I can squeeze in time for one other activity, even if it’s a shorter one.

I am, in other words, knocking it out of the park.

Usually it’s Thursday when everything goes wrong. When I am out of fucks to give, and it’s everything I can do to keep everything from falling apart. On the weekend I rest and recuperate, only to start it all over again.

Of course the above is neither terribly interesting nor terribly insightful (see also “Pixie” by Ani Difranco). It is what most everyone goes through, no matter how special they think they are. Some wise asshole once said that “Life is one long process of getting tired”, so hey, if progress is measured by exhaustion, I’m not doing so bad.

But that is its own sort of madness, isn’t it? Judging life not by enjoyment, not by the differences I have made, but just by how much I am doing? As if busy is full, or lack of free time is fulfilling. Filling hours to try to fill myself, and not doing the best job of either.

I wonder sometimes what I would do if I gave myself a month off. Not from work (I would like to stay employed), but from all the other random shit I feel like I should be doing. The projects and productivity that is a weirdly central part of my life.

But then again, I know that that’s not possible. I have a writing streak (179 days) to maintain, and really, I’m not going to let the house get dirty. Plus exercise is still important, and I have to support my D&D games. And hey look, all of the sudden my free time is cut into such that I could have one, maybe two free nights a week, top, so what’s the difference? Might as well pretend to feel good about myself.

I worship at the alter of productivity, after all.

I think I’m ready to fast-forward to when I have some land, maybe someone else on it with me, and where my incessant need to do can be better channeled. Here, living in the city, I have to invent things to fill my time, but with things to grow there is always something else to do.

And the work feels more honest, more true to me. All my so-called productivity nowadays and I can’t spot the difference. At least working with the land, growing your own food, you can touch your work, feel your efforts.

There is truth there, truth I want to get back to.

One day.