I made it to the coffee shop before the rain started its mad rush down. I feel sorry for the man who has to ride his motorcycle home. I don't feel sorry for myself, today. For the paper I came here to research and write as fast as I can. I am very much afraid of writing the paper. I don't really know what I'm doing. I don't know where to start. I don't feel like I know enough about this topic to really thoroughly analyze and explore it. I don't really know much about writing a long research, theory based paper which also keeps me afraid and a little tied up and a little gray.
Though there is also this latent excitement for actually doing work. For cracking the books and keeping the word document open in full screen view for hours on end. There is something romantic about that.
The issue I think I face most often (well, I'm not sure I actually turn and face it and try to struggle and deal and work through it) is that I want very much the romance of work to combine with actual work. In my mind I also rarely work. I rarely sit down and focus on one project. I try to distract myself. I can't handle work. I must do a whole slew of other things while working. What will happen to me if I give myself to work for an afternoon? What if the work is unfulfilling? What if I work and work and work only, and nothing?
I think my life will feel better if I actually allow myself to believe in my autonomy and agency, my own strength and power to do, to act, to work. I need work. I need the work of work. The slushy lonely lostness there. I need the pressure and the trying and the I really want this. Instead I let myself sit in not wanting, in complaining, in lack, in distraction. I do not want those things to take my life. I don't want to give my life to them.
Time for a work day. I am bringing myself to the table, to the books, to the open document with a curser appearing, disappearing, stomping its little desirous beat for text to come and create an entity, something new to take up ready space.
