Do you ever have that thing where you have too many good ideas? Or at least, a lot of ideas that seem good, if only you could do them all. If only I did not have to go to my job, or see my friends ever, or take my cat to the vet, I would be able to write all these stories and make all these YouTube videos and post all these blogs. My studies would be going so much faster, and I could write that program that would do that thing.
Why can’t I just be unemployed and unloved? It would be perfect!
Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was Mara talking right there.
Okay, not exactly Mara, but maybe you know what I mean. That’s the path away from reality and into a cyclical self-created drama that only exists in my head.
The thing is, time is finite. When I leave this world, whenever that is, there will be a lot of things that I won’t have done that I would like to. That happens to everyone.
And then I got this stupid cold, and I feel like such a slacker because I slept and read books instead of studying and writing. I need to stop that. That’s ridiculous. I’m human. And right here, right now, I’m a sick human, and that means I have to slow down and take care of myself.
I don’t know why I drive myself so hard sometimes, but I do know that it’s counterproductive. Sometimes the reason why I don’t do things is because I’m so stymied by the feeling that I need to be creating things and doing useful things at all times. I get so attached to that idea that it stops me in my tracks and I don’t do anything. It’s part of my procrastination problem. I want to do everything, and make everything, but I can’t, so I don’t even get started, and I don’t even try. And then I feel guilty, which leads me right back to the beginning, and where I’m doing nothing but staring at Facebook for hours and feeling bad at myself.
But Facebook isn’t really the thing. I mean, it’s distracting, and it’s designed to be distracting, but the distraction isn’t the problem. The problem is being too much of a damn perfectionist, and expecting too much of myself and believing somehow that I’m not doing enough or being enough. I am enough. I am doing enough. The words I write today are enough. The code I figure out is enough. The chords I learn are enough.
And just sitting here coughing and reading books is enough.
I am already who I’m supposed to be, and I don’t have to do anything more than what I do.
So, that’s my brain dump for the day. It’s a mess, and it probably doesn’t make any sense, and it’s brilliant, and perfect, and exactly right.