I'm too good at getting things done, running through my to-do list, taking care of life like it's a series of tasks. Sometimes, I even run out of things to do. And I think about blogging, but then there's never enough time, because the series of events continue. I have to go to sleep so I won't have to hit snooze the next day so I'll have enough energy for work and whatever else.
I don't want to treat life like a relentless optimization problem or a straightforward chain of cause and effect (rigid thinking leads to suffering, after all), but I can't help it. It's personality or programming or the cost of doing the business that is self-sufficient living. But but but.
Living needs room for creativity, for deep dives into oneself to what one is and what one means (through what one thinks and one feels), to channel that and weave a world of coherence unto oneself. For life to be more than survival - to have meaning.
I suppose, there is an explanation contained there for my persistence in love (and loving, you). It was the antithesis of my self-sufficient life - where nothing got done, I wasn't taken care of, and there was no straightforward chain of cause and effect. I hated it, but I could feel (good, bad, mostly bad) and it meant a world of incoherence.
And in the aftermath, I still make meaning. I no longer talk to sort out the feelings, but the maelstrom could be fuel for creativity? I think about the grief, in serving as a deterrent for love in general, as possible means to channel me into a singularly-purposeful career, or an alternate mode of creation.
Life is material, after all. And we ourselves are God-given means to paint the canvas of existence, or to pour ourselves out on the page (as it were). I'd always wanted my artwork of a life to be bold, and it takes these little deterrences, these small acts of bravery, typing against the onslaught of time and my own well-wielded task lists. And then I go to sleep and don't hit snooze and have enough energy, and I'll live.