Too easy to turn over once more in the blankets, twice, thrice, when my main occupation is writing. The harm is not tangible, the only one disappointed myself. If repeated, the bad habit itself becomes a prison, the only threat depression slowly crawling in.
After several weeks of this, I no longer feel the stimulus to actually get-up-and-go-do. It’s a funny feeling, this first-hand experience of my brain failing in a basic process. It has an easy short term remedy: map out the day and set alarms for those moments my brain fails to prod me… to get up, yes, but also the start of the work day and its end, so I sleep and rest enough… because lack of work is mirrored in lack of sleep.
It’s a short, sharp lesson that humans need to be needed, or at least need to make a difference. The elite’s ennui suddenly makes more sense, stitches itself together with the teen’s frustration about their future, the jobless’ person existential crisis and the senior’s nostalgia for the days before retirement. The deeper truth: God created us for purpose and though we have power in defining it, we should, at a minimum, seek to have one.
I want to write. I need to apply pants to seat and not lose sight of that.