17.2.15

The more I dither about what is best, the more I want to do something that is the obvious wrong choice. Something that cannot be weighed.


I have so much sympathy for my body, and so little for my mind.


It's been a powerful shift for me, from my long-held habit of putting all my self-worth eggs in the basket of smartness to the really shattering revelation that the mind is fallible, just another part of the vessel in the end. Where do you go from there? There are a lot of screwed-up smart people out there living some kind of way.

Thinking about how to get money is sometimes exciting (if the means are somehow transgressive), usually nauseating. Ideally, you do or make something that somebody else wants you to do, and then you get money, but I am so far removed from thinking about my life that way that I only manage it every few days. I wander onto other scorecards, other measuring sticks, and forget that the reason I do a job is so I can pay rent. I'd rather not think about it, except that when I forget, I cease to have any compelling reason to go to work at all and it gets heavier and heavier every second.

I don't know if I'd rather live in resentment over becoming emotionally involved in something I don't really care about, or spend my time in a panic over something I really want to do. My heart involves itself whether I want it to or not. I went off coffee again because I've been spending about half of every day on the edge of tears, but it hasn't helped. Anxiety is a fucking hydra.

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