Ambition and goals have become elusive throughout this long stretch of exceptional isolation. I recall a period of time several months back, leading into Fall or so where I was grasped by a strange spirit of productivity or direction. And not necessarily the capitalist “productivity”, but more the personal and intimate fulfillment. Things as simple as cleanliness and organization alongside this ever-present idea of the rest of things falling into place behind that. Check things off of lists and amass collections of personal completions. Small goals. Something to trick that game-brain into building a head of steam and spurring that into something more substantial. Now, I know it’s probably a silly jump to go from reorganizing your t-shirts and completing your reading list to Discovering Ones’ Self™, but for short while, it felt that way.
But of course, writing this is an admission that it didn’t last. Not that I expected to reach a finish line or anything. This is more a meditation on where that spark of self-construction could have evaporated to. As mini-goals fell in place and I started looking inward towards personal desires and goals, I think that’s where this started falling apart. I suppose I expected to find this hatching new inspiration, a new favorite genre, hobby, skill, music, some kind of rabbit hole to fall into, which I could come out the other side of, more enriched and satisfied. Instead I couldn’t really recognize what I was met with, which just invites more answerless questions. And that’s just knocking on Anxiety’s door with special guest Impostor Syndrome.
At least this is something I’ve been working on for two years, looking back at my “Momentum” post, and I’ve definitely developed a bit more self-awareness since then. Though it definitely feels like I’m waiting on something. Something to happen.That I’ll get to be the recipient or receptacle of some karmic intervention. Which is a painfully teenage fantasy. Like waiting on an invite to Wizard School, or some X-gene activation. Fun idle daydreams, sure. But probably symptomatic of the perpetual emotional fatigue that chokes a lot of my time. The hours allocated to work and worry leave me with not a lot else. I’m working on trimming down the worry. Though that brings us to the original concern.
If you weren’t so preoccupied with anxieties and worries, what would you use all that time for?
bend all your notes for me