I can really only imagine what I could do or accomplish or
create if I wasn’t so good at creating distractions for myself. Short term distractions, that is. I don’t read books anymore, because my
attention span is too short – my eyes start to hurt by the end of the second or
third page, so the book lies on the floor, unread. Netflix, Trivia Crack, cocktail hour … these
things all pop up insidiously and distract me from doing anything
creative. I allow them to invade; I
invite them in via my apathy and depression. Losing focus isn’t at all rare for someone
stuck in the rut of unhappiness.
What’s the cure to malignant existential cancer off the
soul?
I don’t have the strength to fight it off anymore. My weapons have gone dull and lost their
efficacy. I fend off the new onslaughts
of melancholy with nothing more than arms upraised in a semi-defensive stance,
more to block the blows than anything.
But then, once a fighter has stopped throwing punches and just covers
their face, they end up sunk down in the corner of the ring, dazed and bruised
and bleeding. It’s not that they’ve
given up, more like they can’t even stand up anymore. Too much energy is needed just to push
themselves back up off the ground.
But enough of the boxing metaphor – life awaits today. I am hiding in my bedroom until the main source
of my discontent goes to work, and then I will try to find something, anything,
which inspires me enough to care today.
Just listening to his footsteps in the hallway outside my closed door
makes me want to crawl back under the covers and never come out. Childish, I know. Avoidant, I know. But right now, it’s the only thing keeping me
wound.
These words I’ve just written are not inspirational, but
they are a base, a start. I’m going to
build on these words and use them as a start to catharsis. From the ashes comes the phoenix, right? I’m gathering myself back.
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