Sporadic Thoughts
I'm exhausted. Long overdue for a vacation. Burned out, with no end in sight
I often wonder exactly how we ended up in the system we've created for ourselves - that being one of labor until we are decrepit. Why do we tolerate it so? Everyone hates it, we all talk about it every day, and yet here we are.
It's funny, capitalists like to claim nobody would want to work in a socialist system, but the whole dream of capitalism is being rich enough to never have to work again. Feel like people would be far more agreeable to labor if the benefits were readily apparent in their lives and not funneled into an overseas bank account, never to be seen again. Plus the load would probably be lighter on everyone if we all focused our efforts to needs instead of meaningless capital.
I threw my back out a few weeks ago, but since my job requires moving heavy objects it has been slow to heal. Yet again, I need a vacation.
I always want to journal, yet can never convince myself to stick with it. What's the point of writing these thoughts and lists for them to never be read? I'm certainly not going to read them again, and I'm not making them available for others to read. I admit there is a catharsis to putting ink to paper, and even a strong, poetic pull to the simple act of handwriting, but these things are simply not enough for my brain to latch onto and to see as useful.
I struggle with practicalities. With everything needing a purpose, or with art that requires time investment needing to be "worth" the time, in a near literal sense. Time, after all, is fleeting, and we only have this one life. Yet this approach is forbidding and often depressing. I'm striving to let myself enjoy things regardless of quality, regardless of time sink. It's a difficult pivot to make though.
I wonder who you are, dear reader. A stranger to me? Far away? Nearby? What is your struggle? Where do you find your joys? What do you see when you look in the mirror, or when the black screen jumpscares you with your own reflection?
I end with a poem:
In my darkest hour
The phrase came to me:
"One day you'll be the happiest
You could ever possibly be
Nothing before or after
Will reach that peak of bliss
And you'll never know
Which day that is.
One can only hope
The day has not passed by
Never to return again."