I am having a real hard time shaking the feeling of general unease.
The undefined dread
The lingering self-hate.
When I am not productive, I freak out.
I need to get busy.
Lately I do nothing but what I have to do.
In rare (and brief) ďcreativeĒ bursts, I write about how I donít write.
I spend more time planning to exercise than I do exercising.
Itís like Iím waiting for something to happen.
Iím doing nothing to change things.
Maybe I need to quit my job.
I would believe thatÖexcept I remember how unmotivated I was before I started working. Maybe I need to create a project within the job I care about.
Maybe I need to be more drastic.
Go back to school.
Leave the country.
Blah, blah, blahÖ
Iím disgusted at myself for writing the above.
I am a broken record.
A dim-witted country song.
It would be one thing if I was bound by debt. Or had a family to support. Or any number of factors that I could blame for my lack of progress.
I am the spoiled brat who sulks during their own party.
Iím sick of myself.