"What's the matter? The CIA got you pushing too many pencils?"

I seem to live in a paradox. They only times I get overwhelmed with the urge to write is when I’m in a state of exaggerated emotional disharmony or existentially distraught.  However, I seem to be of the mindset that if I could manage a way to write for a living, I would somehow find the elusive happiness, or at least contentedness that has done it’s best to evade my grasp for the last 30 years. So the act of what I conjure would bring me joy, is catalyzed by a melancholic state and I can’t seem to make the diametrical ends meet in a fashion that would ostensibly render me peace.

Life seems to be a series of metaphorical stairwells. I’ll begin and the top, find the convenient and modern distractions to help guide my descent by means of procrastination, directionless entertainment, and flat out wasting of time. I become aware of my settings and mindset just in time on the precipice of the last step that leads into the maelstrom, then begin my arduous ascent with the aid of writing, meditation, and generally being productive, only to become bored with the view at the top, and work my way back down again.

Occasionally I’ll stop to cool my heels and consult the map of idealistic endeavor. I have a few dream jobs that quickly dematerialize when brought under the light of realistic scrutiny. Any one of these jobs would take years of commitment, meticulous planning, perseverance in the face of inevitable failure, and attention to detail. None of those are strong suits for me. And on top of that, I don’t know if I actually want these things, or if I just like the idea of them.  After folding the map back up (accompanied with an amplified outward breath and undulating lips resulting in a cartoonish motorboat-like sound) I stretch my arms back, look up at the looming set of stairs, and once again begin my imitation of Sisyphus.

As I become an advanced practitioner in the art of sculpting mountains from less imposing geographical structures, I can’t help become more aware of the passing of time, and the more I become aware of it, the more I take an effort to do more with my time, and, inevitably, the more I fail to make productive use of that time, the more disparaging my frame of mind becomes.  It’s like my inner Princess Leia is showing stalwart boldness in confidently informing my inner Darth Vader that “The more you tighten your grip, the more time and productivity will slip through your fingers.”

I’m in an odd Catch-22 (Hey! That’s my favorite book) of not wanting to waste my time pursuing something I’m not passionate about, but having consternation for not passionately pursuing something with my time.

Maybe I should just do what I always suspected would work out, and employ my pragmatism by finding a decent paying, stable job involving some physical labor and letting that be the means by which I create comfort for myself, while simultaneously finding fulfillment where I can in other avenues.

But that just seems so boring.

Hey mind! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!