On this fragmented clusterf*** of a mind
Life sometimes feels like one long trail of actions substituting or replacing the actual work, the actual attention required to create a sustainable and stable level of contentment. I have spent an inordinate amount of money, time, worry, and attention on things that, looking back, have done nothing to improve my baseline of happiness, haven’t moved the needle even one small step in the right direction.
It seems a waste, but alas, I fear it has also been necessary. No matter how significant the lesson, I wouldn’t have been able to learn from others. I had to break myself in the process, had to seek out my own peaks and throw myself into deep valleys. I had to cut myself down, had to cut a few down with me.
So here I am now, broken, never to be whole again, the years felt on me. But also the weight easing. I have overthrown old dogmas, sold old shit, cast out outdated notions about life. I sat at my piano for one hour this morning, playing a poor version of a beautiful classic piece. It brought satisfaction. I read a few chapters of Murakami in bed last night, it brought peace and sleep to me, didn’t keep me awake well into the night, overthinking in a swarm of impressions. I’ve started repairing my bike when it breaks, replacing parts, making it whole, making it good again. I work out with no music in my ears, noticing everyone around me, groaning and moaning, gossiping about their weekend or instructing their friends in how to squat properly.
But while this brings a more wholesome contentment, more sustenance for my famished mind, I am too fragmented to sustain it, too scatter-minded to tie it down. Am I ever fucking tired of this.