We've All Been There
I have rested a bouquet of Kit Kat wrappers at the end of my bed as a token of my love. Some days the familiarity of feeling lost feels like love. It's something I must adore because I come back to it so often. Like the perfect lover. I am it and it is me. We are one and could not exist without the other. You've been there, at some point, early in your twenties. That feeling was me. That aimless, lonely, down-trodden frustration was a visit I paid.
I sweep up the open petals. The scent of their bloom still lingers and it makes me queasy. Their fruit, I have eaten too much of, makes me want to wretch. Half- priced candy- my heroin, my silky-skinned temptress, the immediacy of its pleasure is something I cannot pass down.
I think this is the larger problem. I have no desire except for the moment. Even then, it's hard to pinpoint what that moment is. I'm lucky it's never linked itself to drugs. I am unlucky that it has, on occasion, been tied to sugar. Sometimes it's sex. I could eat bon-bons and fuck myself to death.
A life, and a heart, ultimately unfulfilled.
My passion is in reduction. It is a reduction. Things simmer out, but the thick goo that is left is actually rather flavorless.
A friend shared a link on SMART goals. Now I wonder if my issue isn't one of perspective. Things seem so heavy these days. The only low effort high value thing I do is to take my medication. Popping a pill is easy, and I get to feel a little less like being out of bed is high effort. A little less. But every waking moment lends itself to exhaustion. Maybe the medication still isn't right. Or it's the therapy. Or maybe I've been overzealous in my confidence in myself and that is starting to wear.
The only other goal I've managed to maintain was to not get pregnant before I had a degree and a good job. That's two low effort, high value goals.
Everything else seems like an incredible expenditure: get out of debt, lose weight, write a script, be happy, have sex, love yourself, love your body, read, draw, paint, maintain relationships, don't get fired, pass all your classes, get into another school, finish a degree, get into law school, don't waste your life. Some of these can be very specific. I have to do a half-marathon in January. This is something I should train for. I know I have roughly two months to do this. I want to fit into a dress, I bought over a year ago for a wedding, for my office Christmas party. I have roughly a month to do this. I know both of these goals could be met together with regular exercise. Running. Every day. Things start to fall apart when I consider the rest of my life around these goals. The cost of these goals is sleep, which I want all the time, which I don't get enough of, and entertainment. The immediacy of the happiness I feel while watching a comedy is the warmth of your blood after a bump of cocaine starts hitting you. It's the cozy feeling of being too drunk to drive. The world is warm in this area that makes slightly less sense than reality. Life is simpler when inebriated by fiction.
It's doable. I do things. I go to work. I finish my homework (some of it). I stop eating junk food for a week. I stop eating at all for a day. I go running on the weekends. But is any of this even what I want?
I sweep up the open petals. The scent of their bloom still lingers and it makes me queasy. Their fruit, I have eaten too much of, makes me want to wretch. Half- priced candy- my heroin, my silky-skinned temptress, the immediacy of its pleasure is something I cannot pass down.
I think this is the larger problem. I have no desire except for the moment. Even then, it's hard to pinpoint what that moment is. I'm lucky it's never linked itself to drugs. I am unlucky that it has, on occasion, been tied to sugar. Sometimes it's sex. I could eat bon-bons and fuck myself to death.
A life, and a heart, ultimately unfulfilled.
My passion is in reduction. It is a reduction. Things simmer out, but the thick goo that is left is actually rather flavorless.
A friend shared a link on SMART goals. Now I wonder if my issue isn't one of perspective. Things seem so heavy these days. The only low effort high value thing I do is to take my medication. Popping a pill is easy, and I get to feel a little less like being out of bed is high effort. A little less. But every waking moment lends itself to exhaustion. Maybe the medication still isn't right. Or it's the therapy. Or maybe I've been overzealous in my confidence in myself and that is starting to wear.
The only other goal I've managed to maintain was to not get pregnant before I had a degree and a good job. That's two low effort, high value goals.
Everything else seems like an incredible expenditure: get out of debt, lose weight, write a script, be happy, have sex, love yourself, love your body, read, draw, paint, maintain relationships, don't get fired, pass all your classes, get into another school, finish a degree, get into law school, don't waste your life. Some of these can be very specific. I have to do a half-marathon in January. This is something I should train for. I know I have roughly two months to do this. I want to fit into a dress, I bought over a year ago for a wedding, for my office Christmas party. I have roughly a month to do this. I know both of these goals could be met together with regular exercise. Running. Every day. Things start to fall apart when I consider the rest of my life around these goals. The cost of these goals is sleep, which I want all the time, which I don't get enough of, and entertainment. The immediacy of the happiness I feel while watching a comedy is the warmth of your blood after a bump of cocaine starts hitting you. It's the cozy feeling of being too drunk to drive. The world is warm in this area that makes slightly less sense than reality. Life is simpler when inebriated by fiction.
It's doable. I do things. I go to work. I finish my homework (some of it). I stop eating junk food for a week. I stop eating at all for a day. I go running on the weekends. But is any of this even what I want?
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