For almost a year now, I’ve been living some kind of secluded life. Though the prospect of such a situation might look dreary, I’m quite happy with what I’ve been up to. But it’s an idea filled with treasures that is hard to convey to others. So whenever someone asks what I’m doing, I end up blabbering some random phrase.
The truth is, lately I’ve been drifting away.
Away from what exactly? From a path. The path I envisioned myself to walk slowly but steadily. A path restricted by my self-imposed constraints, the kind of which are meant to keep you productive and focused, the kind that consists of daily schedules, numerous checklists and habit fields.
This path was meant to provide incessant inspiration and smoothen my workflow. What it eventually led me to is to lose lust. Not lust for life, but for most part of it.
The future I’m heading towards is still highly undefined. I merely have a couple of short-term engagements a trifle distant to look forward to. And I’m far from subscribing to the sacred trinity that many approve of: goals preceded by milestones preceded by tasks. The analytical part of my brain wish I did, but my idiosyncracies won’t allow it.
What about my (recent) past then? What have I achieved so far? What successes can I marvel at, convincing myself of my activities not remaining vain?
My time has been exclusively two-sided:
- producing (writing here and there, words and music)
- consuming (reading classic novels, watching classic films)
I could possibly measure the first by gathering my latest works and create a list to look and wonder at. But I firmly believe that gazing at such achievements in retrospect is dangerous and might drain all creative motion.
I could probably also measure the second by counting the number of novels and films I’ve thoughtfully absorbed. But how do you measure insight? How do you evaluate the degree of discernment to which these mental peregrinations have promoted me?
The only hope I’m left with is to outsmart the indefinite procession of shadows yawning before me.