Monday, February 03, 2014


Of my voyueristic subjects, I think the slacker is one I have a particular weakness for. How at odds with the company of highly motivated and passionate folk I spend most of my time with. In the spirit of sweeping statements that I don't have to make good on, permit me the following: if you removed all incentives and societal expectations, and asked me what I wanted to do with my time, well. Sprawled on the couch, a book always within reach, the headphones playing the comforting sound of country and western. I suppose writing every once in a while, if I could stand the stress of introversion, and the reminder of failure from these ventures never really amounting to anything. (As for why they persist, well, at least there's commitment to failure.)

But I stress voyueristic. Because I seem unable to cope with the real thing. When I go through it myself, I get a crushing sense of uselessness. Is it the inability to let go the shackles of expectation that have controlled nearly every decision up till this point? Or is it, more simply, the pretty fantasy colliding head-on with the slab of reality I seem so keen to escape? As with most personal experiences, it's hard to disentangle everything, and so all hope may seem lost. But. When I see it in others, whose life course bears no impact on mine, I must admit feeling that it is the latter. I can't help but feel I am witness to a life unfolding before my eyes, squandered to no end.

Time is fixed, but what we do with it isn't. I don't know what we're meant to be doing. But nothing, tempting as it is, doesn't seem the likely answer.