I have been trying to get myself to work since this morning. So far I have ended up writing pieces that had nothing to do with work, and watching the last episode of Downton Abbey, and reading a book.
It is impossible to work on a Sunday. One can feel the holiday-ness of it. Even the sun is a certain shade of gold that meant Rest and Play.
I thought I have not made any art for weeks so I took out my little Moleskine plain notebook and made this:
I was hoping it would get me energized to work. It didn't. Why do I even bother to try to work in the first place? I think I feel guilty for being sick last Friday and not being able to work at all.
I also do not trust my immense capacity to:
Work pains me. At least the kind of work that takes me away from the writing I want to do and the art I want to make. It would not have been so bad if it were simple work, nothing that taxed me to the point of exhaustion. But the nature of my day-job demands a lot of mental effort, and mental effort is exhausting. I also have to exert extra effort to make up for my lukewarm heart.
I am reading this book on the science of success and I can understand perfectly what it is trying to say but as simple as it sounds, it is very difficult to practice. My mind is a noisy babble of anxiety and impatience that possibly slows me down towards the life I want.
I must not be distracted. The day-job is a means to an end. I must be careful not to get trapped as if it is an end in itself. I was in that cage once. I must never get caught again.
"Play your roles, but KNOW that they are NOT YOU." - Joseph Campbell