There's a particular kind of stuckness that doesn't look like laziness. It doesn't come with the normalized lazy days, the guilt free rest that everyone talks about. It comes quieter than that, like sitting in front of a window that won't respond. You look out, you wait for something to shift, and nothing does. You become a watcher of your own life instead of someone living it, and that distance is its own kind of exhausting, maybe more than doing something wrong ever could be.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Underneath it is this constant pull. The more I want, the more I feel detached from what actually is. My mind keeps speaking in false hopes, telling me an idea will frontier so well, will finally be the thing that moves, and then it doesn't, and I'm left further from myself than before. I earn, I function, but there's this low hum underneath it all that says this won't last, that it will come rushing down.
It's like being a dope addict addicted to his own supply, or the dope seller who already knows the whole thing is temporary but keeps moving product anyway, moving away from something without ever naming what it is. I don't know what to do with that feeling yet. Maybe the first honest step isn't fixing it, just naming it out loud, the watcher finally saying what he sees through the glass.
