Thursday, April 4, 2013
Posted by Zek J. Evets at 11:02 AM
These days my thoughts tend to ramble around inside my head like boulders in a fist-fight, knocking my skull, pressing up against the back of my eyes as if they could see through to what I see. Which is what? More of my own thoughts again. I seem to spend a lot of time in the company of my own thoughts. Just thinking.
It's not that I'm lonely or alone. It's just that I spend a lot of my time doing thing that require internal work more than external work -- I sit and write pretty much the whole workday. When I get home, I sit and I play games to relax. In the end, I'm always in front of a bright screen, thinking of what to write or what pixilated monster to kill with my imaginary warrior. It's a lot less sad than it sounds, I swear.
But back to these thoughts: I've been pondering Israel, the idiocy of my peers, the beauty of nature, what Judaism means to me, how to save/spend money, whether this client deserves an extra 30 minutes because their case is more sympathetic than the other 900 pending, and when the hell did my family disintegrate into pockets of nuclear bubbles? I dunno. I also think about the future, about traveling, about helping people, about writing The Next Great American Novel, about if I like the idea of getting into politics, and of exercising more.
It's strange inside my head. So much hope and passion is pressed up against so much sadness and pessimism.
And now, writing again on this blog, it feels like putting on an old pair of jeans. Do they still fit? Do I still fit? Am I trying too hard to recapture some lost prelapsarian feeling of promise? Meh. At 16 I thought by 26 I'd be a famous writer. Now at 26 I just hope I'll be a decent writer by 46. By 46... who knows? There's nothing wrong with fading away slowly, but I kind of wanted a little more pomp and circumstance to my work than the quiet desperation currently in place.
Is it time for a change? Always. But what do I change? Each addition cuts something else because, despite my best efforts, I'm a finite being. I cannot do it all, nor do I want to. On Mondays I want to spend the day sleeping. On Tuesdays, playing computer games until my eyes bleed. On Wednesdays, write a book people will read for generations On Thursdays, workout till I have rock-hard abs. On Fridays, watch every movie in the theater. On Saturdays, break-dance and drink with my girlfriend. On Sundays, pray and meditate on my spirituality. And in between ALL THAT, I still have TV to watch, music to play, dishes to do, bills to pay, crises to prevent, and subsequent mental fatigue to undo.
Remember the story of the guy who died the death of a thousand cuts? I feel like I'm on cut 992. It's time for some armor -- or at least a band-aid. Maybe 2.
So it goes. It's not like I don't have my whole life in front of me, so people say. But I've seen that song and dance end, very quickly. A whole life in front very soon ends up a pimple on a raggedly and wrinkled ass that can on think of younger days with regret, or anger at misspent youth wasted on the young.
Still, there's always something to be cautiously optimistic about. I'm not broke, not homeless, not loveless, not hungry, not cold, not ugly, not ignorant, not bigoted, and not bored. The last thing I'd want in a life so filled with stuff to do or to be is to suddenly find myself bored. That'd be a goddamn Greek tragedy. If there's one thing I can say at the end of every day, at the end of my life... I wasn't fucking bored. (Okay, maybe a couple of times, but it hardly counts.)
Anyhoo, I think this tangential train is gonna stop for a while. Time to change the tracks for outbound traffic going towards something a little more uplifting than these thoughts.