Sometimes I think I take life far too seriously - other times not seriously enough. I think that I constantly torture myself, punish myself, and other times lavishly reward myself - there's little consistency, and many times I simply don't care.
It's 3:22, and I can think of countless things that I should be doing but aren't. It seems sometimes that life is simply a constant series of unrecognized demands, like a clerk balancing a tower of papers waiting to be filed. The intricacies of the day-to-day have very little bearing on the soul, on the ephemeral, on the aether of the unknown. Like the clerk, we do the job that has little relevancy to us as ourselves because it is a societal requirement, a checklist, the tasks that make it possible for us to have that little pocket of time to collapse into numbness. The constant day to day drudgery supresses us, shackles us to the necessity of perpetuating it, until finally it becomes impossible to break free and open the locks.
I am compounded by guilt, by anxiety, by the weight of the future. I don't know how to tear myself away from this fate that I don't want, or perhaps I simply don't have the courage to do so. I admire people with great courage, but I always feel surrounded by a horrible kind of restraint.
But always - the barest glimmer of hope.