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Anhedonia
Today is a painfully Mondayish Monday. I can't really seem to pull myself together enough to do anything really productive, even when there's absolutely no reason for me not to. The will is there, the body wants to go that way, but the weight of sheer inertia is keeping me from doing too much. This is what makes me depressed; when *everything* in my make-up is telling me to do one thing, but I just can't motivate myself to do it.
These are the days when I want to indulge in vices: to take out a pipe and smoke, to drink wine at ten in the morning, to eat cold pizza and stale beer, drink unsatisfying cigarettes, to blow off work and have the boss almost fire me. These are the days it's tempting to destroy myself just to see where I'd be, what would happen. And by tempting, I mean, the thought pops up into my head as a remote possibility.
Do you really have to be lost to find yourself? Do you have to suffer to make art that's worthwhile? Can you gain insight into the 'true' nature of reality without being insane? If you're not struggling against something do you truly grow?
I think these thoughts are just my subconscious telling me maybe I've gotten too stable and/or complacent. But can you blame me? I have a job I absolutely love, the best boyfriend ever, and slowly but surely I'm becoming a writer. What's wrong with that?
I guess having a stable 9-to-5 job that I like with good friends surrounding me and a love life that's healthy and relatively non-tragic doesn't live up to my romanticized ideal of the kind of Bohemian life I'd be living when I was 25. Is that why I miss the 6th street house? It was truly a dump. The ceiling caved in, there were spirits everywhere, the entire house leaned towards the road and we had to introduce wolf spiders to take care of the brown recluses. I think I could take everything if my home sucked a little more. ;)
Actually, I do have this burning desire to live a bonafide house, not any of these fairly cookie-cutter apartments where everything works or breaks down on a common level. Houses have personality of years wrapped into them, tricks and quirks and acquiescences you have to make and plan and design around. Wood swelling or shrinking, the window in the third bedroom that never closes just right, that little bit in the closet where you can see into another room. I love being intimate with all of that, growing comfortable in a place until it feels like it's merely an extension of my being. You can't...replace that feeling. It's a great one.
But that's what goes through my head on Monday mornings.
These are the days when I want to indulge in vices: to take out a pipe and smoke, to drink wine at ten in the morning, to eat cold pizza and stale beer, drink unsatisfying cigarettes, to blow off work and have the boss almost fire me. These are the days it's tempting to destroy myself just to see where I'd be, what would happen. And by tempting, I mean, the thought pops up into my head as a remote possibility.
Do you really have to be lost to find yourself? Do you have to suffer to make art that's worthwhile? Can you gain insight into the 'true' nature of reality without being insane? If you're not struggling against something do you truly grow?
I think these thoughts are just my subconscious telling me maybe I've gotten too stable and/or complacent. But can you blame me? I have a job I absolutely love, the best boyfriend ever, and slowly but surely I'm becoming a writer. What's wrong with that?
I guess having a stable 9-to-5 job that I like with good friends surrounding me and a love life that's healthy and relatively non-tragic doesn't live up to my romanticized ideal of the kind of Bohemian life I'd be living when I was 25. Is that why I miss the 6th street house? It was truly a dump. The ceiling caved in, there were spirits everywhere, the entire house leaned towards the road and we had to introduce wolf spiders to take care of the brown recluses. I think I could take everything if my home sucked a little more. ;)
Actually, I do have this burning desire to live a bonafide house, not any of these fairly cookie-cutter apartments where everything works or breaks down on a common level. Houses have personality of years wrapped into them, tricks and quirks and acquiescences you have to make and plan and design around. Wood swelling or shrinking, the window in the third bedroom that never closes just right, that little bit in the closet where you can see into another room. I love being intimate with all of that, growing comfortable in a place until it feels like it's merely an extension of my being. You can't...replace that feeling. It's a great one.
But that's what goes through my head on Monday mornings.