It’s never enough.
I can always be doing something more. I can always push myself that little bit further. But I don’t, because I’ve Done Enough. Because, at the end of the day, I’ve moved myself forward that incremental little piece, and that means that this day wasn’t a waste, and I don’t have to push myself forward another incremental little piece. As I say, it’s never enough. It’s always just enough. Just enough to assuage my guilt a little, so that I can lie to myself that I’m pushing forward, which yeah, I guess I am. But not nearly enough. Heh, there it is again.
I was about to phrase this next paragraph around the idea that I’m a victim of my own arguments. But I’m not, really. I’m the assailant, because I’m the one making those very arguments. You hear about self sabotage all the time, but it’s not until you’re sitting in your comfortable office chair of an evening, thinking of something to write about, that it finally hits you in the face like the big, wet, smelly, rotting fish that it is. For the past year and a half, I’ve been sabotaging myself with ever-convincing arguments.
And you know what the most terrifying thing of it all is? I’m not sure I can stop. I’m not sure if I can push myself that hard, when I know that it’ll involve minimal effort on my part. The answer isn’t readily available to me, so I might as well give up, right? Fuck that. Fuck my lazy-ass attitude. Fuck the way I’ll write 90% of an article and click ‘save’, knowing that it’ll be another week before I look at it again, when I can push myself for ten minutes more and finish the damn thing. Fuck that I’ll run the same damn stretch every other day, knowing that I can go double this distance, but I’ll get a stitch, and so I better stop. I mean, hell, I’ve pushed myself double that distance recently; it’s about time I started doing that in a professional space to.
It’s 10pm. That means I’ve got a good four hours before I head to bed. That’s four hours I can spend writing, but it’s four hours I’ll probably spend being bored, playing games or watching television. Because it’s easy, y’know? It’s what I’ve done all day, with only passing effort pushed into the odd piece of stuff. This is why I don’t have a living, yet. This is why I’m sending off job applications instead of moving to the city and forcing people to stand up and take note. This is why I’m an unemployed graduate with half a job. Maybe not even half.
I started doing this OneADay thing because I thought it might get my creative juices flowing a little more freely, but those juices have spilled all over the floor, and in the oil slick of my own making, I’m seeing myself a little more clearly. That’s good. Introspection and self reflection are what’s going to get me to snap out of this stupor I’m residing in. Now I can push forward, realise where I’m going wrong and change things. Change isn’t an easy thing to bring about, but if it was we’d live in flux. I need to cause a diversion so I don’t stay in this rut.
I’m hoping that, by putting this up here for literally dozens of you to read, it’ll stand as a sort of pledge. It’s probably not going to do me any favours, professionally, if anyone who can potentially hire me to do some work reads this; it’s displaying a poor work ethic and a lazy attitude. Luckily, when I do work, I work phenomenally fast, and, hopefully, to a high standard. And I’m working on those other parts.
But having it out here, in the public, means that it’s a personal insult to me, and one I can make redundant at any time. So I’m going to sabotage myself, again. Only this time, the only part of me I’m sabotaging is the petard within me. This is a gut punch to his lackadaisical attitude, a kick to the balls of his procrastination. And yes, anthropomorphising that part of myself does help, thank you very much.
The crazy thing is, I’ve already got what I need to do figured out in my head. I need to be pitching more, I need to be organising my pitching more. I need to use a fucking calendar, structure my days, structure my weeks, structure my months. I need a plan, so that I’m not left high and dry by my own devising, forced to sigh and look at the clock, realise there’s only twenty more hours in the day, and figure ‘fuck it, it’ll wait another day’. Yeah, it won’t. Because tomorrow isn’t today, and I’m never going to get anything done that way.
So let this stand, a great big ugly monolith to my own productivity, or lack thereof, and hope that it helps me improve things. Because I’m twenty two, stuck in my parents house, with the world at my fingertips, and I can’t be arsed to make a fist and grab something. Fuck that. Let’s do something about it, push myself to be better than I know I can be, because it’s better to burn out than fade away, right? Sometimes the trite ones are the most fitting, or at the very least, the most true.