Sometimes it seems that I am seriously ill. Procrastination doesn't seem to be a bad habit, it's a way of life, not the best way perhaps, but a life fit for the lazy. If I do something worthwhile, it would be an accident, and if I am wasting time, I am running on schedule. Nothing doesn't become a regret and what turns out good would be but a stroke of luck, or if I was religious, a miracle from God. I don't feel part of the human race; rather an alienation from everyone who seems to be acknowledging the tick tock-ing of that incessant clock and even if they aren't exactly 'seizing the day', they are at least feeling the days race past. Each day feels longer than the last, yet the weeks feel as though they are tapering away. And the years? - I don't remember the years. Time is always a few steps ahead of me and I just trust that tomorrow will always be there to catch the ugly remnants of today. Am I on a race against time? No, I am simply accepting the fact that I'm going to lose. Perhaps these bitter thoughts are exactly what being human is about. But then I would fall under the dreadful human condition of constantly playing Tetris - you know, that bad analogy I made a while ago - until you don't even know why the
fuck you are playing at all. And you wonder if you should even bother trying to win.
One of those inside outside; upside downside; leftside rightside days - or maybe weeks. I hope not years.
I've started to enjoy drawing again. Drawing with markers freehand; it's satisfying to leave a mark and know that even if it was a bad mark, there is absolutely nothing you can do to erase it, you sort of just have to make the most of things and move on from there.
